


There’s No Residue of a Torturer Inside of Your Eyes

by Fade_from_the_Light



Series: Sytaria [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abandonment, Asexuality, Astraphobia, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Burns, Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drowning, Dubious Science, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Experimentation, Extensive And Possibly Unnecessary Worldbuilding, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Human Experimentation, Human Sacrifice, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Activities, Implied Desire to Rape, Implied Sexual Content, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Magic, Magic and Science, Medical Procedures, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Physical Abuse, Police, Science Explained With Magic, Torture, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 69,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fade_from_the_Light/pseuds/Fade_from_the_Light
Summary: Whumptober 2020 with all my original characters. Contains pieces from the canon story and other AUs.No. 1: shackledNo Powers AU. Ian’s finally able to catch Julian.No. 3: forced to their knees, held at gunpointJulian challenges Braith to a Vineris--a battle that he doesn't think he'll survive.No. 7: enemy to caretakerNo Powers AU. Ian’s pulled Julian out of the building but he doesn’t look too good.No. 15: science gone wrongSomething’s gone wrong with Lucien’s magic. It was twisted and jagged and undeniably not hisown.No. 20: lostLucien doesn't know what's worse: him kneeling on the ground beneath Morgan or the fact that he even lost at all.No. 26: concussionNo Powers AU. Ian thought Julian was done with the worst. It seems that he forgot about the concussion.No. 31: experimentThe results of Paris's many trials are coming to fruition, with the results more than even he anticipated.
Series: Sytaria [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981150
Kudos: 1
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. shackled

**Author's Note:**

> I hope anyone that decides to pop in and read this piece enjoys the series of one-shots I've written! I know that original work is less popular than fan work, but I love my characters too much not to post about them. I hope that by the end of this month, some of you guys will come to love them as much as I do.
> 
> Chapter 1 trigger warnings: blood, violence, choking, police.
> 
> Story title from Crazy = Genius by Panic! At The Disco.
> 
> Cover is found [here](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/post/630789481951313920/theres-no-residue-of-a-torturer-inside-of-your).

Ian stops before the interrogation room, peering into the large, one-side window. Julian, otherwise known as Vineris—they had to name him, despite all the power they were relinquishing. Once the media got hold of the calling cards, they were done for—sits at the table on the other side. His gaze lethargically flits over the room, settling on the camera in the corner before turning to the mirror. He grins, it all sharp edges and dripping with sickly sweet poison.

Ian presses his lips into a thin line, tearing his gaze away from the mirror to the table beneath it. A stack of folders rests on the side closest to the door, packed full with all the crimes Julian’s marked. The jacket and belt they stripped from him lay folded, their contents removed and spread out for all to see. An assortment of knives and lock picks sit in neat rows. Beside them is a single pistol, black with the exception of electric blue accents, and about a dozen rounds. 

He turns away from the table. He’s looked at the arsenal of weaponry that Julian had on him enough time to have it committed to memory. It doesn’t help them if they can’t get the confession out of him. And Julian knows this. That’s why anything incriminating is missing.

Ian picks up the folders with one hand and gives the guard his gun with the other. They can’t risk bringing anything in. Who knows what would’ve happened if Julian got his hands on it? 

He opens the door and Julian’s head snaps up to greet him. Ian keeps his posture stiff and his expression neutral. The lazy smile on Julian’s face doesn’t waver. “About time they sent you in here. I was almost afraid you wouldn’t come.”

Ian sits down across from him and drops the folders on the table. “I hope that I don’t have to explain what these are to you.”

Julian eyes them with a veiled hunger. There’s always the risk of showing a criminal their crimes, but it’s one Ian’s willing to take. “Of course not.” Julian voice dips, the smoothness broken by shards of anticipation. He shifts against his cuffs, the metal clattering against the back of the steel chair.

Ian opens the first one. It’s a relatively clean crime scene; broken bottles and scattered merchandise are the only indications that something happened. The calling card is pinned to the right of the photos, the name Vineris printed in elegant script along the bottom. Julian’s expression shifts slightly, just enough to let the shards of disappointment through. “Is this the one you choose?” His voice edges on condescending, his eyes narrowing so that the stormy grey can barely be seen. “Really?”

Ian doesn’t dignify Julian’s words with a response. He grabs the next folder on the pile and opens it, a similar organization to the first but with different photos. Ian repeats this, Julian’s interest growing as the crimes become more gruesome. 

“Stop.” Julian’s voice cuts through the sound of rustling papers. “Where did you get that one?”

Ian places a hand on the folder he just dropped, partially covering the image of a woman no older than seventeen sprawled on the floor. Blood paints every available surface. “What’s wrong?” 

“That’s the only one where someone's died.” If Ian didn’t know better, he’d say Julian sounded _shaken_.

While that wasn’t the first conclusion that Ian would’ve come to, there was the distinct lack of a calling card, it was a valid one. It is the only Vineris crime with a murder. “Does that mean something to you?” It takes every ounce of effort that Ian has to keep his voice steady. 

Julian bite his lips, glances away from Ian. “You can’t pin a murder on me.”

“What’s so bad about a murder?” Ian gestures to the folders spread across the table and the ones still stacked. “How is it any worse that the torture you’ve done? The people you’ve almost killed?”

Julian leans forward, digging his arms into the sharp edge of the table. His eyes are narrowed with a dangerous energy and his lips peel back into a sneer. “ _I_ don’t kill people.”

“Are you certain? I have something here that would disagree.” Ian reaches down to the last folder in the pile and pulls it out. He opens and drops in front of Julian, just below the girl. “Braith Livingston. Killed by a single bullet to the head, the ballistics matching the bullets from your gun. And if I remember correctly, you were arrested for it.”

“I was found innocent.” Julian won’t look at Ian, his gaze set at the pictures before him. His voice is closed off, a chilling iciness layering over it.

“It doesn’t mean you didn’t kill him.” Ian leans back, watching. He needs to unnerve Julian before going in for the final blow. He needs to appear calm even if nervous energy flickers within him.

Julian’s silent, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His cuffs rattle. “He deserved to die. No, he _needed_ to die.”

“And she didn’t?” Ian gestures to the girl, not quite looking at her. He can’t stop the tremble that runs through his hands.

Julian catches on to it, something shifting in his expression. “You may not want to hear this, but it doesn’t matter that she died. She’s insignificant.”

Anger boils up within Ian, no matter how much he tries to clamp down on it. It burns everything it can touch, tearing down the fragile illusion of normality that Ian built. “How can you say that?”

Julian looks up to him, his gaze lazily running over Ian. “Her death was pointless. It means nothing.”

Ian stands, the chair screeching back and slamming against the floor. “Claire’s death isn’t meaningless.” He couldn’t control his voice, it wavering and flicking with emotions that burned in his chest. 

Julian grins, mirthless and numb. “I doubt that. Sometimes there’s no meaning.”

Ian grabs onto the collar of Julian’s shirt, the material rough in his grasp. He yanks Julian forward, digging his chest into the table. “What do you know about that? You don’t even have a family member to your name.”

Julian meets Ian gaze, the manic light bursting in his eyes once again. “I know more than you do.”

Ian throws Julian to the ground and climbs over the table to grind his shoe into his chest. “Bullshit. I was there when your mother killed your father.”

Julian _laughs_ , bitter and drawn thin. “Says the one that can’t even speak to his father.”

Ian drops, pulling Julian up so he can get a better look at him. “Shut the fuck up.” He winds back his arm and punches Julian.

Julian’s head whips to the side but he doesn’t stop laughing. He spits out a glob of blood and grins at Ian, the sickly red staining his teeth. “Hit me harder, maybe it’ll work next time.”

Ian throws Julian into the wall. Satisfaction bubbles within him as Julian arcs back when he hits it, sputtering and coughing. Blood drips from his lips. “Maybe that'll shut you up.”

Julian leaned forward, his breath choppy and punctuated with gasps that still sound like laughter. He looks up to Ian. Enjoyment sits barely concealed in his expression. “I doubt it. I’ve been told I’m not that good at listening.”

A wicked, cruel grin stretches across Ian’s face. It burns but he can’t seem to remove it. “Let me help you then.”

He drags Julian away from the wall. He shoves his knee into Julian’s chest, digging into the tender bruises that were surely forming. Julian bites back a groan. Ian punches him over and over again, anger threatening to consume him.

When that bores him, he wraps his hands around Julian’s neck. His flesh is soft beneath his grasp and the beat of Julian’s heart’s thready against his palm. Julian gasps but it’s muted and faded. 

Ian’s torn from Julian, his nails scratching against the pale strip of skin that’s Julian’s throat. A guard holds himself back as he struggles, his hands clenched into fists. “Get the fuck off me!”

“I can’t have you killing our suspect.” The guard drags him to the other side of the room, holding him as Morgan walks through with Ashlyn flanking him. Morgan won’t look at him but Ashlyn glances his way. Something like pity rests in her gaze. He hates it.

Julian pushes himself up to a sitting position. Blood drips down his chin and spreads over the bruises already blooming on his neck. He looks up between his bangs at Morgan. “Look who decided to come. I haven’t seen you in years.”

Morgan walks around the table and couches in front of Julian. Ian can’t see his expression. “How do you want to do this? We’re not going to have a repeat of last time.”

“Don’t worry.” Julian looks over Morgan’s shoulder to Ian, the grin back on his face, still as thin and unwavering. “I’m not planning on having this getting to court.”

Morgan stands. “We’ll have to see.”

He turns on his heel and strides out, Ashlyn a step behind him. Julian doesn’t even spare them a glance, his eyes still steadily trained on Ian. It’s the last thing Ian sees before he’s dragged out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it! And if this didn't have enough whump for you, don't worry. The one later into the month are even better.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	2. kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian's kidnapped for reasons he's still trying to decipher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This piece is not as good as any of the other works; it was the first one I wrote after not writing for almost three months. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: None

Consciousness comes to Julian in pieces, small shards that barely tell him what’s going on, let alone how he got here. Spotted light filters in through the cloth wrapped tight around his head. He tries to bring his hands up to his head but they’re stopped by thick shackles weighing down his wrists. He leans back, the concrete rough against his back, and a sigh slips through his teeth.

A groan startles him and Julian instinctively opens his eyes. Chains rattle across the ground and another person bites out a few choice words. “Ah shit. How did I get myself into this, this time?”

Julian leans forward and drags the blind fold off his eyes. It hangs limply around his neck. The room is small, a single light hanging from the ceiling. Across from him, just barely out of reach, sits Bay. The bright, fiery red of his hair was unmistakable. “I don’t know if it’s better or worse that you’re here with me.”

Bay’s head jerks up. “Who’s there?” He tugs on his shackles, his lips peeling back in a sneer. “I’ll fuck you up if you come any closer.”

Julian narrows his eyes, trying to hide the deep spindles of fear that try to climb up in his throat with exasperation. “Nice to know that you remember me.”

“Julian?” Bay stops struggling, his head turning before stopping in Julian’s vague direction. “You’re here?”

“Intelligent observation.” Julian deadpans. He shakes his shackles. “Lean forward and pull off your blindfold before you make even more of an embarrassment of yourself.”

“Shut up I knew what I was doing.” But Bay lowers his head and tears off the blind fold. It sits limply in his grasp. “Can’t say that I’m glad to see you.”

“I doubt you’d believe me if I said I’d prefer to meet under better circumstances.” Julian looks around the room once more. A chill runs down his spine. There’s a camera here. 

Bay grins at him, thin and wicked. “I hate to say you’re correct.” He drops the blindfold and wraps his hands around the chains. “But these circumstances are about to become more desirable.” Bay’s magic sparks and flames ignite in his hands. 

His magic cuts out and the flames sputter out. Bay cries out and Julian strains against his shackles. “Bay!” Julian calls out around the knot of dread in his chest. 

The next moment, everything goes silent. Julian’s breathing stutters in his chest, warping and sinking in his lungs. His magic’s _gone_. 

Julian can barely hear the crackle of a speaker over the blood thumping in his ears. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that.” The voice is familiar in a way that chills Julian down to the core. They sound like Alden, like _Braith_. But they can’t be. Julian killed them himself. 

(You didn’t kill Alden. The small twisted part of him says, grinning in a way that he would never. You _couldn’t_.)

“Like that’s going to stop me!” Bay shouts, his voice thready with a flicker of an emotion Julian can’t bring himself to decipher. It sounds too much like the panic that’s coursing through his veins. “I’ll take you with my fists!”

“Julian.” The woman says. He can feel the weight of her gaze through the camera. “Please keep out dear Blaise in line. I doubt you want to see what Lucien’s been working on.”

The implications of her words choke Julian. What did she do to get her hands on Lucien’s research? 

“Who the fuck is that?” Bay glares at the ceiling, his jaw clenched and the veins in his neck bulging.

“Don’t.” Julian’s voice is hoarse and far quieter than he would’ve liked. “Trust me on that.”

Bay looks between the ceiling and Julian but keeps his mouth shut. Laughter crackles over the speaker. “I’m glad we came to that agreement.” The speaker clicks off and they’re bathed in silence.

The cell is too still without his magic sense and Julian tries to stop the threading desperation that threatens to overtake the panic. Bay slams in fists into the ground, the clattering of his chains growing quieter and quieter with everything successive slam.

“What is wrong with her?” Bay bites out, his eyes narrowed to slits at the steadily growing smear of blood staining the floor. “What did we do to Emilie or Audrey to piss them off?”

Julian leans back against the wall, staring up at the light. It flickers between a dull, sickly yellow and a pale yellow. “I went to war with Emilie.” Julian looks back down to Bay. “And I sided with you.”

“She wants to vote the two of us out of kinghood.” Bay gives one last tug at his chains before resting his hands on the floor. “When we get out of here, she’s fried.”

“If we get out of here.” Julian gestures to the room with a shrug of his shoulders. His thoughts are starting to muddle together with the distinct exhaustion settling in his bones. “There’s nothing much that we can do.”

“Don’t worry.” Bay finally meets Julian’s gaze. There’s a manic energy within his eyes, unstable and explosive. He cups his hands around the chains on his wrists just so Julian could see them. The links closest to the cuffs are warped and melted. “It’ll only take a little longer for these to snap.”

Bitter bubbles of hope break through the thick layer of exhaustion draped over him. “Alright. I’ll bite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	3. forced to their knees, held at gunpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian challenges Braith to a Vineris--a battle that he doesn't think he'll survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy about this one! It's one of the scenes I've wanted to write for a while and this was the perfect excuse to. This is an important turning point for Julian's character.
> 
> Trigger Warning: blood, violence, gore, character death.

Julian leans against the wall, the dark red curtains of the wings a mere foot in front of him. The murmur of the crowd filters over him, charged with an unmistakable manic magic. They’re waiting for bloodshed. 

But Julian doesn't know if he’ll give them what they want. 

He pulls his gun from its holster and removes the clip. He empties into his palm. Six bullets rest there, a dulled silver in the dark shadows of the wings. He rolls them in his hand before returning them one at a time into the clip. If he plays his cards right, he shouldn’t have to use it. Something within him hopes that he doesn’t.

Something far louder hopes that he does. 

He shoves the clip back into his gun and returns it to its holster. This whole thing will start soon. He pushes off the wall.

“Julian.”

Julian whips around to find Blaze standing in the doorway, a hand against the frame. “Blaze? What are you doing here?” Blaze hates him.

Blaze steps closer, unsteady and uncertain. His magic is pulled in tight, barely brushing against Julian’s sense. “I had to see you. Before you Challenged Braith.”

Julian looks away, staring at the ropes that hang off to the right of Blaze. “Don’t worry. Your problems with me will be resolved no matter the outcome.”

“What if the outcome’s your death?” Blaze’s voice wavers with a vulnerability that cracks and splits across his face. 

“Then so be it.” Julian couldn’t admit that fear locks his limbs. That the only outcome he sees is the one where he doesn’t walk off this stage. “I know when I’ve been living on borrowed time.”

“What if—” Blaze pauses, looking down. His hands clench into trembling fists. He swallows. “That isn’t the outcome I want?”

“Don’t be so naïve.” It’s getting harder and harder for Julian to keep the bite in his voice. He has to keep Blaze away. It’ll be easier for both of them. “This is beyond our wants.”

“You can’t throw yourself away like this!” Blaze steps closer, grabbing onto Julian’s arm. It burns, both chillingly icy and scorchingly hot. 

“This is my life. I can choose whether not I’m throwing it away.” It takes every ounce of effort that Julian has not to push Blaze away. 

Blaze pulls Julian into a hug, digging his hands into Julian’s jacket. His voice is a whisper against Julian’s cheek. “Please.” 

Desperation claws within Julian. He wants nothing more than to accept Blaze’s hug but he can’t. “I’m sorry.” Julian pushes Blaze away.

Blaze stumbles back, hurt cracking on his face and pain bright in his eyes. He watches as Julian steps towards the wings. “I’ve never hated you.”

Julian turns back. A smile that isn’t quite sad but isn’t quite happy either. It’s a weird mix between longing and fear. “I’ll always be your family. In this life or the next.” 

Julian steps through the wings. 

The lights bathe the stage in a blinding white and cast dark shadows over the audience. The audience still as Julian walks across the stage, his steps echoing through the room. Braith stands across from him, his arms cross over his chest. A sword rests against his hip. 

Julian reaches out before him, a theatric for the audience, and summons his sword with a crackle of his magic. The blade gleams a deep blue in the lights, the normally black brightened by the harsh whites and pale yellows. He swings it to his side. “Braith.” 

Braith unsheaths his sword, the color a dull silver compared to Julian’s. “Julian. It’s not too late to back down. I won’t hold it against you.”

Julian tightens his grip on his sword. “I Challenged you. I’m not forfeiting.”

“Of course.” Braith lowers his stance and Julian does the same, pointing the tip of his blade back. “But don’t think you’re getting out easy this time. You used a Vineris this time.”

Julian draws a breath in, shifts his weight back, and pounces. 

They exchange blows, sometimes catching skin and other times clanging against the metal of their blades. But Julian makes one fatal misstep.

He slips on his landing, his foot skidding out wide and unsteadying him. Braith doesn’t falter, knocking Julian to the floor and kicking him across the stage. The faux wooden tears into his skin and his sword scatters out of his grasp. Braith picks it up and tosses it into the pit separating the audience from the stage. 

Julian coughs, sticky blood dripping from his mouth. He spits it out. Braith strides towards him, lazily adjusting his grip on his sword. Julian tries to drag himself to a sitting position, his hand weaving to his hoster. But Braith kicks him again. He slams his foot into Julain’s chest, his ribs fracturing and cracking. Julian tightens his grip on his gun, coughing.

“I’m going to enjoy this.” Braith grinds his foot down on Julian’s chest. He wheezes out a breath. Fear winds around Julian’s limbs, weighing them down. He can’t breathe.

He whips out his gun and aims it square at Braith’s head. “Get away!” His voice is thready and far too unsteady.

“Like that scares me.” Braith kicks Julian again. 

Julian pulls the trigger.

The bullet tears through Braith’s shoulder, unaffected by the magic Braith flared. He stumbles back, his sword clattering out his grasp. Julian scrambles to his feet, keeping the gun trained on Braith’s head. He kicks the sword away. “Get down on your knees.”

Braith frowns, his eyes narrowing. After a shuddering breath, Braith lowers himself down. He looks up to Julian. A bitter fortitude rests in his gaze. “You’ve got me here, now what are you going to do?” Julian could hear the taunt in his voice.

You can’t kill anyone, what are you going to do now?

Julian couldn’t decipher if that was Braith’s voice or his own.

He removes one hand from his gun and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a single bullet, a bright red strip lining the base. He holds it out for Braith to see—for the _world_ to see. “This is a blank.” Julian informs them. He tears off the strip and drops it. It flutters to the ground.

He releases the clip of his gun and empties the remaining bullets into his palm. Bratih watches him warily but doesn’t dare to move. Julian could summon his sword back faster than Braith could retrieve his. 

The six bullets gleam in his hand, the color now a startling silver. “When I get to it,” Julian rolls them in his hand. “I’ll stop pulling the trigger.”

He slides each bullet into the clip one at a time, each one fitting in seamlessly. The clip clicks when he pushes it back into his gun. Braith’s silent, sweat mixing in with the blood running down his face. Something remnant of fear is branded in his gaze. Julian steadies the gun to Braith’s chest.

He pulls the trigger. 

Braith jolts over and over again until the final shot rings out and Braith only slumps forward. Sickly red blood pools around him, his eyes blow wide. Five messy holes tear out through his back, the viscera and blood splattered out behind him in a twisted rainbow. Something rests heavy within Julian’s chest. It feels like satisfaction. He should be disgusted by it.

He isn’t.

Julian lowers his gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	4. buried alive, collapsed building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. The build's collapsing around Julian and he's not sure if he'll get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU was only supposed to be for a few chapters but by the time this is all posted, it'll over a third of my entries. It got a little out of hand.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: blood, gunshot wound, police

Julian presses a hand against his shoulder, biting back a hiss. His arm throbs, the bandages straining against the movement, but he can’t let himself bleed out. Julian was idoitic enough to let Milo get off one lucky shot and it was enough to slow Julian’s sprint to a crawl. It didn’t help that his ribs were still smarting from the beating Ian gave him a few days ago. Even if they were only bruised, which he doubts, the pain doesn’t recede in a few days. 

He leans around the corner, scanning over the street. The faint light from the rising sun bathes the street in pale blue shadows, the sidewalk void of any pedestrians. It’s quiet but the faint sound of sirens filter over him. He had to leave and he had to do it now.

A building catches his eye, squat with two, maybe three stories. A broken fence surrounds the dilapidated walls. It looks like a strong wind could knock it over but it’s more concealed than the alley he’s in now. It’ll take ten seconds to cross the street, less if he can sprint. 

He draws in a breath of the chilled morning air and runs. His gait is awkward and his adrenaline has long since worn off. Pain jolts through his shoulder and settles into his arm, the burns pulsing with the beat of his heart. He ducks under the broken stretch of fence and strides across the unkempt lawn. The door’s locked but he slides a lock pick in and opens it with ease. 

The inside is bare with dust and mold and something else that Julian can’t decipher growing in between the cracks of the tile counter. The air is musty and thick, heavy from the disuse of the building. He shuts and locks the door, drawing the moth-bitten blinds closed over the windows. 

He leans against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He removes his jacket to inspect the wound. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, the bullet lodged within his shoulder. It isn’t fatal, he would’ve passed out hours ago if it was, but doesn’t want the bullet to stay in there any longer than it has to. He can barely raise his arm. 

But the thought of digging his fingers into the wound sends nausea churning in his stomach. His hands aren’t clean and he has no way to patch the wound after removing the bullet. He’s almost certain that it’ll only make the bleeding worse. He just needs to get to Golden Dawn. Blaze will know what to do. He’ll help him.

Julian rests his head against the wall, ignoring how it creaks under his weight. He draws in a breath, his ribs aching, and closes his eyes. He keeps one hand pressed against his shoulder and the other resting on the base of his gun. He’ll have to see if he can draw it when the time comes. If anything, he can guarantee that this aim will be true.

At the sound of the metal fence crashing to ground, Julian’s eyes shoot open. The building groans as the remains of the fence slam against it, dust and plaster flaking off in scattered flecks. He never got around to checking if the building had any other entrances. He has to assume they’d come through the front. 

Julian steps into the next room, pressing his back against the wall. He glances through the door, watching the windows and front door. The door splinters open and Ian strides through. His eyes narrow and his nose wrinkles. “Julian, hiding here won’t help you.”

Julian drops his hand from his shoulder and pulls out his gun, his grip slick with tacky blood. He breathes in, aims, and fires. 

The shots ring out through the building, slamming into the plaster and shattering windows. Ian returns the fire and Julian ducts behind the wall. He drops to the floor and slinks through the room. Worn furniture lay stacked at one end of the room and Julian hides around them. 

Ian stalks into the room, his eyes scanning over the environment. Just before Ian can spot him, Julian grabs a chair and swings it at Ian. Ian ducks and the chair collides with the wall. It shudders and Julian runs off into the next room. He can hear the ceiling creak and collapse. He needs to get out here. He needs it to be now. 

He doesn’t hear Ian’s steps and peers into the next room. The ceiling crashes in the room next to him and Julian runs. 

Something collides into his back and Julian _screams_. Pain flares through his shoulder, through the burns on his arm, through his ribs. It devours him and leaves him vulnerable to the darkness creeping in on the edges of his vision. 

He passes out to the sound of crumbling plaster.

——

Ian coughs, crouching against the brittle grass before the building. Ashlyn stands beside him, glaring. He leans back and draws in a shuddering breath. “You shouldn’t have pulled me out.”

“You would’ve been crushed.” Ashlyn crosses her arms over her chest. It doesn’t hide the tremor in her hands. 

“But we’ve lost Julian!” Ian leans back, trying to gather his bearing to stand. “He was our only lead into Golden Dawn!”

“The rest of the force will be here soon. We can excavate the building and collect what Julian had on him.” 

“But what we needed was his confession.” Ian pushes off the group, stumbling slightly as the world tilts. Ashlyn steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. “He may die if we wait any longer.”

“You’ll be hurt if we don’t.” Ashlyn tries to guide him to the curve. Ian shrugs her hand off.

“Just let me look.” Ian’s voice is quiet, wavering with a desperation he doesn’t want to admit to.

Ashlyn looks between Ian and the street. “I’ll give you until the backup comes.” She leans in close, her eyes trained on the street. “I won’t say anything if you don’t bring him back here.”

Ian nods. “Thank you.” 

He steps away from her and enters the shell of the building. He picks through caved in ceilings and collapsed walls. He doesn’t touch anything more than he has to, afraid of shifting anything and bringing the rest of the building down on him. He retraces his steps, stopping to pick up the jacket Julian discarded. Blood stains the left shoulder. 

He drapes it over his arm and continues through the building. Furniture and debris block his path and he has to climb across it. The plaster flakes in his hands but he drags himself to the other side of the room. 

Two doors sit on this end and Ian peers into both of them. He stops when he glances into the second one. Julian lays there, frighteningly still. But he’s still _breathing_. It’s choppy and irregular but it’s something. 

Ian rushes over to Julian, crouching beside him. “Julian?” Ian gently shakes his shoulder.

Julian groans and shifts his head. He opens his eyes, narrowed and unfocused. “Ian? What are you doing here?” The words are barely slurred. Ian has to count that as a good sign. 

“I’m getting you out.” Ian turns his gaze to debris. It pins Julian down at his lower back. Ian’s confident he’ll be able to lift the rubble but he won’t be able to drag Julian out at the same time. “I’m going to lift the debris but you have to drag yourself out. Can you do that?”

Julian frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. Ian places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Julian you’ve got to stay awake.” He tightens his grip.

Julian’s eyes shoot open and a whine escapes through his clenched jaws. “I can do that.” He can barely get the words past his labored breathing but Ian has to trust him.

It’s his only option. 

Ian releases Julian’s shoulder and positions himself beneath the rubble. He lifts it, his muscles straining. The whole building creaks. “Julian!”

Julian drags himself forward, fingers digging into the floor. Eventually Julian clears himself from the debris and Ian lets the rubble drop. The whole building shudders and Ian can’t breathe.

But it settles down with no more than a few flakes of plaster raining down on them. Julian rolls onto his back, drawing in gasping breaths. He won’t look at Ian. 

Ian grabs onto Julian’s right hand. Ian isn’t sure which one would hurt Julian more, the same arm as the bullet wound or the one wrapped tight in red-spotted bandages. Ian assumed that the arm with the bandages must’ve been more healed than the bullet wound. 

Julian slowly turns his gaze to Ian. “What are you doing?” It takes him far longer than Ian would’ve liked to finish the sentence. Julian frowns.

“We have to go.” Ian stands and guides Julian to his feet. When it’s clear that Julian can’t stand, Ian throws his arm over his shoulder. “C’mon.”

Julian walks in step with Ian, although it’s more of a stumble in the right direction. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe.” Ian drags Julian out, glancing over to the front. True to her word, Ashlyn’s standing by the curve. But he can hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. Ian turns and starts the slow trek back to his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	5. on the run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. Julian escaped the Precinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece occurs between chapter 1 and chapter 4. After the challenge, I might separate this into single one-shots and order them by the different series: canon, this AU and another AU that appears in future installments.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: police, guns, alcohol mention

Julian watches the camera, staring seemingly unblinking. He has half a mind to act nervous and anxious but it’s long since passed the point that anyone would still be nervous. He’s been in here two almost three days and chained to a bed even longer. Even for someone who wasn’t guilty, their patience for nervousness would’ve run thin by now. 

He knows that this could come back to haunt him when they inevitably show this in the courtroom, but he hopes that his boredom is apparent. Assuming that anyone’s watching him now. He’s functionally harmless now that they’ve taken his weapons, there’s no need to keep him on a 24/7 watch. 

Or at least that’s what he wants them to think. They’ve taken the obvious sources of weaponry and tools, his belts and jacket, but he wouldn’t be nearly as good at what he does if that was his only source. Pressed into the fabric of his boots are a set of lockpicks and the blade of a pocket knife in the other. All he needs to do is reach down and press the blade into the fabric and tear it open. 

Previously he had the problem of his hands being cuffed behind him but Ashlyn solved that one. It was easy to barely meet her gaze and request that his cuffs be bound in front of him while she watched the nurse rebandage his wounds. He’s certain that she saw through everything that he did but she cuffed his hands in front of him and that’s all that matters. There was a rebellious spark within her gaze and obstinance set in her smile. She could become a good ally in the future. 

Julian glances to the mirror, watching his own reflection. Tired, bored eyes stare back with the flicker of a smirk he can’t suppress. It’s been three minutes since shift change and no one should be manning the camera for another twenty-seven. He leans forward, untying one of his boots and sliding a hand down the inside. No one comes in. He presses on the dull end of the blade. It tears through the fabric and he pulls it out. 

He tucks it into his palm and unties his other shoe. He slides the blade down into his other shoe and presses it against the fabric. He drags the blade upwards, keeping an eye on the door. If his luck wore out and someone walked in, he needed to be prepared. 

The lock picks fall out into his grasp and he brings both up into his lap. He takes great care to retie his laces. The last thing that he wants was for his escape to fail because he trips on his own laces. Blaze would get a kick out of that: his own brother caught in an attempted escape due to his own idiocy. 

Julian turns to the cuffs on his wrists and gets to work. It’s harder to pick the lock from this angle but not impossible. It takes him less than five minutes to pick both cuffs. He drops them on the table, the metal clattering loudly against the faux-wood. He stands and stretches out his arms, the burns snaking up his right arm stinging as he moves. He strides over the door and unlocks it. 

The light from the interrogation room spills out into the hallway, staining the floor with the harsh white color. Julian glances to the sides. No one greets him. He walks out. Now he needs to find his things and leave. 

He stops, blinks and does everything not to gape. On the table before the one-way mirror sat all of his weaponry, laid out in neat rows. He gives one more glance down the hall before getting to work replacing everything. The knives and lock picking equipment are returned to their sheathes and pockets. He reloads his gun and shoves it into its holster and pockets the rest of the bullets. Beside everything is a tall stack of folders, presumably the folders containing Julian’s crimes. He glances between the interrogation room and the folders and grins. 

He could leave them a calling card of his own.

Blaze always told him that his desire for theatrics was going to get him killed but Julian knows deep down that Blaze enjoys it. And Julian couldn’t stop now. It’s who Vineris is.

Julian grabs the top folder and a marker. He tears off the front, scattering pictures across the floor. It’s of that woman, Claire, that Ian showed him. Something heavy settles in his gut. He didn’t kill her. Couldn’t have killed her.

After all, Vineris doesn’t kill.

But, the dark, sinister part of him whispers, _Julian_ does.

Julian picks up the pictures and drops them in a pile beside the folder. He ignored them as he wrote his note. He addresses it to Ian and pauses before signing it. Instinctively he goes to sign it as Vineris, but it doesn’t settle right with him. This is personal, this is impulsive, this is something that Vineris wouldn’t consider doing.

Julian signs it with his own name, the print in the same elegant script that he uses to sign all the other calling cards. He drops it on the interrogation room’s table, beside the cuffs. He narrows his eyes and adds the blade and lock picking equipment that he used. 

He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the flickering light in his wake. If he timed it correctly, he still had fifteen minutes before anyone noticed he was gone. 

The back door of the station wasn’t hard to find and even easier to pick. Julian strides out into the night air, breathing in deeply. His ribs ached and his lungs rattled with the residue water from near drowning but it’s cleaner than the recycled air in the station. He draws his jacket tighter around him and sets off into the night. 

Julian flinches every time he hears a siren, faded and far enough in the distance that he has no reason to be concerned. The fifteen minute head start that he had has long since passed and he overestimated how far he could get. His burns ache and sting and his ribs protest the harsh movement. 

The siren rings out through the street and Julian _sprints_. He shoves anyone foolish enough to be out this late to the side and ducks into the closest alley. He hides behind a dumpster, pressing his back into the rough brick. His breath twists and chokes him as the red and blue light pulses in the alley from the slow movement of the police car. 

But it doesn’t stop.

Julian crawls out of the safety of his cover only when the siren’s faded. He steadies himself against the rim of the dumpster, his vision blurring on the edges. He was more hurt than he thought and he couldn’t remember if it was from almost drowning or the beating that Ian gave him.

Or if it was from an infection caused by his own idiocy.

Julian pushes off the dumpster and steps back into the street. He can feel the weight of the passersby’s gazes. They might recognize him or know that the only person who hides from the cops are the ones who are guilty but they won’t rat him out. This isn’t Golden Dawn’s territory but the protection here is just as good.

Maybe it’s time to visit Brazen Flame. 

Julian stops before a bar straddled on the edge of town, tucked in the corner of a strip mall. It’s worn down enough to appear seedy and deter anyone but the brave from entering. Julian pushes open the front door, the hinges creaking. Part of him assumes it’s purposeful.

Everyone turns at the sound, the din of the bar quieting to a murmur. Julian’s face is plastered on every TV in the bar, the cocky half-smile tugging at his lips. It’s unfortunate that everyone has to see that, it was only meant for Ian. 

“What the fuck are you doing here Julian?” Harvey places the glass down from his place behind the bar. He reaches to the gun that rests beneath mahogany wood. 

“Missed you too Harvey.” Julian scans the bar, eyes narrowed. Most of them are appropriately apprehensive with his presence, maybe with a touch of fear. “Is that how you treat your brother?”

“Half-brother.” Harvey places the gun on the table. “I fortunately only share half my blood with an idiot like you. What are you thinking coming here after getting your ass arrested?”

“I didn’t think you cared enough to keep up with that.” Julian rests his hand on his own gun, tightening the grip. Everyone tenses. 

“You need to leave.” Milo’s voice cuts over the crowd. He steps out from the back of the bar, eyes narrowed with a dangerous anger.

“Milo, I was wondering when you were going to show.” Julian lowers his hand. “I’ve a request for you.”

Milo glances over the bar, swallowing. “We’ll speak in the back.” He turns around and steps out of the main room.

Julian follows him, waving at Harvey as he passes. “Nice to see you again, Harv.”

“Fuck off.” Harvey flips Julian off with a grin full of teeth.

Julian returns the grin before entering the back room. Boxes upon boxes of alcohol are stacked on one side, each as expensive as the last. Milo doesn’t speak, gesturing for Julian to follow him back into the offices and storage. He leads Julian to an office and closes the door behind him.

Milo leans against the desk, arms folded loosely over his chest with one hand draped over the hilt of his gun. “Why are you here, Julian?”

“I need to make a phone call.” Julian fiddles idly with the hilt of his gun, debating whether he should draw it prematurely.

“I can’t do that with everyone after you.” Milo shifts, removing the strap over the gun. “I’ve already compromised myself enough by letting you set foot in my bar.”

“You owe me, Milo.” Julian lets a shard of arrogance into his voice, tightening his grip on the hilt of his gun. “Or have you already forgotten.”

“You should’ve known this from the moment you walked out of the station, I can’t let you have a phone call. Who knows what they’ve stuck on you.” Milo shifts and expression sharpening from the previously neutral stance. It’s bitter and paranoid.

“Why call me back here, then?” Julian gestures to the office with his free hand. “Was it just to humiliate me? I’m sorry, but the force’s already beat you to it.”

“I wanted to give you a reminder that you can’t push me around.” Milo draws his gun and levels it at Julian’s chest. A shiver runs down Julian’s spine, sticky and unwanted. “Just because I took your brother in.”

“I don’t owe you anything for that.” Julian starts to draw his gun, the electric blue accents gleaming in the low light. He stops when Milo tightens his finger against the trigger. “I’ve given you a member that hates Golden Dawn more than you do. What more do you want?”

“What was it that you told me? ‘I’ve spared your life, any debts I had have been paid.’ I don’t think this is any different.” Milo shifts the gun to the left. “I’ll let you _walk_ out of my bar.”

“Milo it’s just a fucking phone call.” Julian clenches his hand into a tight fist to hide the tremor that runs through it. It instead settles deep within the pit of his stomach. “You don’t need to do any of this.”

“But I do. Or Julian,” Milo grins, thin and wicked. “You’ll never learn.”

Milo pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	6. no more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian’s sixteen and determined to prove Blaze wrong. He’s old enough to go on missions and he’s strong enough to help find his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this one (I'm going to say that about all of them, aren't I? lol). Julian and Blaze's relationship is my favorite and my most nuanced. They try so hard to be good brothers. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: guns, character death, blood, injury, panic attack, choking, vomit

Julian leans against the wall in the small courtyard overgrown with grass and weeds. He holds his father’s gun in his hand, alternating between flicking on and off the safety and removing the clip to count the bullets. Six still sit in it, a small portion from the boxes that sit tucked away under the blanket in the closet. He hasn’t tried to fire one.

He hasn’t had a reason to. 

“You shouldn’t swing that thing around.” The voice startles Julian and he almost drops the gun. He runs his finger against the safety and flicks it off. He returns it to his holster.

“I’ll be careful.” Julian glances over to the group, Xavier taking the lead. He smiles and it sends a shiver over Julian’s skin that he can’t explain. When Xavier doesn’t speak, Julian glances between him and the men behind him, licking his lips. “What brings you over here?”

“I’ve got something I need you to do.” Xavier holds out the folder he had tucked under his arm. Julian recognizes the seal across the front.

“You’re giving this to me?” Julian grabs the folder, running a finger over the seal. “This is my mission?”

Xavier shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s a shame that Blaze’s wasting your potential by having you sit here twiddling your thumbs.”

“Isn’t this going against his orders?” Julian can’t stop himself from asking the question. He shouldn’t, it’s only going to serve to have Xavier take it from him. He’s going to see that Julian’s too naïve to do this. 

“You haven’t been here long enough to hear this, but Blaze is only leader in name. We’re the ones that hold the power.” Xavier gestures with his shoulder to the people behind him. 

That isn’t what Blaze told him. Julian looks away from Xavier and opens the folder. It’s filled with only a few pages but the order is written clearly on a card pinned to the front. Julian’s hands shake.

It’s a kill order.

“Something wrong?” Xavier asks. The innocence in his voice is grating.

Julian shuts the folder. “No.” He returns his gaze to Xavier, trying to keep his expression neutral. He wasn’t that successful. “What’s the deadline?”

Xavier’s grin sharpens in a way that digs through Julian and pulls on every paranoid sense he has. “A week should be enough.”

Julian nods and Xavier brings a hand to his shoulder. Julian can’t suppress the flinch. “You’ll do fine.” Xavier’s voice is a purr, low and dangerous. But Julian can’t back out now. This is his step out of the box that Blaze placed him in. He can’t give it up.

Julian shoves Xavier’s arm off him. “I’ll report back when it’s done.”

“Of course.” Xavier turns and strides away, his steps measured and the sound of his shoes against the concrete echoing. 

As soon as Xavier’s out of sight Julian stumbles into the wall. He presses a hand into the brick, leaning over and dry heaving. He runs his fingers through his hair, sticky sweat collecting at his brow. His hands are shaking with the erratic beat of his heart and he couldn’t _breathe_.

But he had to get control of himself. If Blaze walked out here and saw him, saw the folder splayed out on the ground, he wouldn’t just punish him. He’d expel Julian from the Guild. And Julian can’t have that.

Blaze is the only family that he had left.

Julian draws in a shuddering breath and gives a shaky exhale. Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s all he has to do.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Straighten up, fix his jacket, pick up the folder, and leave.

It takes a few minutes but he does exactly that. 

——

Julian sits on the chair by his desk, the folder laid out open on top of it. He’s read through it numerous times, enough to commit the whole thing to memory. His targets: Matteo and Michelle Basilone, the leaders of Brazen Flame. They both were powerful in their own right, they had to be if they ran a Thieves Guild, but they couldn’t touch Julian. 

The location: the city of Urania. It’s a small town located in the Northeastern section of Calethyia. Julian heard passing rumors of the Basilone family living there when he was enrolled in the Academy but nothing more. Part of him wanted to visit the city. He’s no longer certain that he does. 

His objective: infiltrate the Day of the Blue Sky festival held at Urania and isolate the two. It’s reported that this shouldn’t be difficult, they were already prone to wander the city unaccompanied. All he had to do was slip away to follow them and kill them when they were alone. Simple. He should be grateful that Xavier gave him such an easy mission to start with.

But his gut churns at the very thought of raising his father’s gun at anyone. He can see Alden there, grinning with a gun pressed against his father’s head. Magic crackles around them and Julian can’t tell if it’s his or if it’s his father’s or if it’s some else’s entirely. 

He breathes in and pushes everything away with his exhale. None of that matters now. He needs to infiltrate that festival, isolate Matteo and Michelle, and remove them. That’s all he can afford to focus on.

Julian closes the folder and slides it under the blankets with his bullets. He pulls out a suit and mask for the festival, luckily it still fits, and places them into his bag. The gun goes on top, along with a box of extra rounds. He zips it up quickly and slings it over his shoulder. 

He gives one more glance around the room, checks the door to see if it’s still locked, and opens the window. The night air is cool, still thick with a layer of humidity. He jumps out the window and activates his wings. 

——

The festival was a burst of bright lights against the buildings and crackling magic scattered in the darkening sky. Julian readjusted his gloves, scanning the crowd. He spotted Matteo and Michelle edging towards the thinner crowds. He tightens his grip on the gun, hidden within the folds of his jacket. 

He pushes off the wall he was leaning against and draws his magic into himself. The size of his magic makes this difficult but not impossible. Especially with the people around him, more than willing to use their magic in bursts and sparks. Julian grabs a glass from a waiter walking by, nodding and giving him a grin in hopes he doesn’t say anything about his age. The waiter just returns the smile and moves on. 

The sun starts to set, casting thick shadows over the clearing. It makes it even easier for Julian to dart between people and stay out of view. He sips from the glass, the alcohol burning in a way he’s never enjoyed. But years of formal dinners and dances trained him to smile through gritted teeth and swallow down the bitterness threatening to over take his expression. He places his glass down on a table when he sees his targets move away from the crowd. 

He follows them through winding roads and narrow streets, staying out of sight and just far enough so they couldn’t detect his magic. He could try to shoot them from this distance but he couldn’t trust that he’d get both of them. The gun was a pistol after all.

The two stop at a small boardwalk that extends out to the large lake that boards the western edge of the town. Julian steps out of the shadows and draws the gun. The targets turn around. A wearily acceptance settles into Matteo’s expression. “I’m surprised it took them this long to send someone. They wouldn’t…” His arrogance quickly melts into shock and confusion. “Wait. You’re just a kid.”

“I’m not a kid.” Julian’s voice quivers and he hates that he can’t steady it. His hand tremors.

“You can’t be older than my youngest son.” 

Julian bites back a pained whimper. They have _children_. The words reverberate within his head and he can’t get in the image of his father standing there across from him out of his mind. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He _can’t—_

No. He _has_ to do this. “It doesn’t matter.”

There’s pity in Matteo’s gaze and it looks so much like disappointment, it _burns_. “You don’t have to do this. You can walk away and neither of us can speak of it again.”

“No!” Julian tightens his grip on the gun, steading his hand enough for the aim to be accurate. Everything’s too loud and too quiet all at the same time. “I _have_ to do this!”

Matteo opens his mouth but Julian can’t handle hearing any more. If he does, he may not finish this.

Julian pulls the trigger. 

——

Blaze stands in the bakery’s kitchen, watching as his chefs roll out dough and man the ovens. A deep-set anxiety curls within his stomach. He couldn’t find Julian. While he wasn’t a child anymore, he wasn’t exactly an adult yet either. Blaze trusts him around the complex and reluctantly lets him travel around the city but no one’s seen him since yesterday morning. 

Unease settles over him, honed through years of experience. He hopes it was only him being paranoid. Unfortunately, it never has been.

The door to the kitchen opens and Xavier walks in. His hands are shoved into his pockets and slinks over to Blaze. A challenge rests in his gaze. “Blaze, you asked for me?”

“I did.” Blaze glances over the kitchen. He already has to inform Xavier of this, he can’t risk the kitchen staff hearing as well. “Let’s talk in the courtyard.”

Blaze leads Xavier to the small, barely used courtyard just below the dormitories. Xavier doesn’t say a word, leaning against the wall when they arrive. 

“I’m only asking you this because of my father’s insistence that you’re a decent person.” Blaze crosses his arms over his chest, letting his magic flicker to the point small atheos collect between them. “When was the last time you saw Julian?”

A smile breaks out across Xavier’s face, thin and bitter. “Who do you take me as, a stalker? How am I supposed to know where Julian is?”

“Playing dumb with me will get you no where.” Frustration bubbles within Blaze but he presses his expression neutral. “I’ve seen you hang out around the new recruits.”

“But Julian isn’t a traditional recruit, he’s your brother.” Xavier’s voice flickers with arrogance and self-assurance. “Why would I spend any time with him? He wouldn’t side with anyone but you.” Xavier pauses. “Although he was quite willing to accept the mission I gave him.”

“What mission?” Blaze couldn’t hide the waver of anger in his voice, the thin shard that cuts through his composure. 

Xavier shrugs lazily, shifting against the wall. “I dunno. I can’t remember which one—”

Blaze presses his hand against Xavier’s throat, his expression cold and harsh and all sharp edges. “The mission, Xavier, or I’ll start squeezing.”

Xavier’s eyes are blown out wide and Blaze can feel his throat bob against his palm. “It’s a kill order.” Blaze tightens his grip and Xavier stutters. “F-For Matteo and Michelle.”

“What were you thinking?” Blaze digs his fingers into Xavier’s neck. Xavier bits his lip, hands clenching into trembling fists at his side. “I wouldn’t even give that to my assassins. Do you know what kind of war that’ll insight?”

“I didn’t think he’d take it!” Xavier chokes out, his voice ragged and void of his previous arrogance. 

Blaze releases him. He slides down to the floor, a hand wrapped around his throat. “Don’t even try to run.” Blaze’s voice is cold and vicious. “I will find you and death will be a mercy.”

Blaze turns away and jumps into the sky. 

——

The shot’s louder than Julian thought it would be. It rings in his ears long after it’s faded, echoing over and over again like a twisted mantra. Matteo slumps to the ground, a clean hole on one side of his head and a mess of blood and viscera on the other. Blood pools around him, purple in the deep shadows of the night. 

Julian drops his gun, his hands shaking to the point they’re spasming. He stumbles back, his breath tearing through his chest. A whine escapes past his lips. He doesn’t want to see it anymore but he can’t stop looking at the _body_.

He doubles over and vomits onto the street, the alcohol burning his throat. The spittle around his mouth mixes with the tears sliding down his cheeks. He can’t do this. His heartbeat is too loud and he can still hear the ringing and he wants everything to _stop_.

At the sound of heels clicking against the concrete, he looks up. Michelle walks over to him, fury etched into her expression. Her hands are wrapped around a gun and are shaking for an entirely different reason than his own. “You’re going to regret killing my husband first, he's more forgiving.”

She stops a few feet before Julian, leveling the gun at his head. She grins and pulls the trigger.

Everything happens at once. Another shot rings out right after her own. Julian’s magic flares, shattering the bullet from Michelle’s gun. Michelle drops, the same hole peeking out through her bangs, and Julian _screams_. It’s a twist between fear and guilt and disgust.

He couldn’t have killed her too. There was no way. There was—

But her body lays before him, thick blood matting her hair. Julian falls backwards, pushing himself away. He keeps on dragging air through his lungs but _it’s not enough_. He can’t get enough air—

A hand on his shoulder startles him. He looks up to see Blaze crouched in front of him, concern and something else—something dark and more sinister than what Julian wants to decipher—within his gaze. Julian blinks at Blaze, unable to comprehend his presence. “Julian? What—”

Julian tackles Blaze, wrapping his arms tight around his torso. Julian digs his fingers into the fabric of Blaze’s jacket. Tears run down his face, burning. “You’re here.” Julian chokes out between a sob. 

Blaze runs a hand up and down Julian’s back. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to do this.” Julian’s voice cracks and wavers with fear and something more volatile. “Please don’t force me to.”

Blaze’s grip tightens, bringing Julian closer to him. His voice rumbles in his chest. “I won’t let anyone do that to you. Got that?” Blaze leans back and gently guides Julian’s head up. Cold determination weaved into concern rests in his gaze. “I’ll always be here for you. I promise.”

Julian nods and he believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	7. enemy to caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. Ian’s pulled Julian out of the building but he doesn’t look too good. 
> 
> Direct continuation to [Chapter 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751259/chapters/65450482).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love the trope of Enemy to Caretaker. There is so much hurt/comfort present and I couldn't resist it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: blood, injury, gunshot wound, burns, gore

Ian glares at anyone that glances in his direction, his jacket pulled over Julian in an attempt to make him less identifiable. He doesn’t know how successful it was, but no one approaches him so he has to assume that it counts for something. 

Julian stumbles and Ian has to drag him back up by his arm. His fingers dig into the bandages and Julian whimpers. “Just a bit further.” Ian says.

Julian’s breath shudders in his chest, labored and far too irregular for Ian’s liking. Ian’s hand pressing against Julian’s side is slick with blood and Ian knows that can’t be good. Julian glances over to him, his eyes glossy with pain. “Where are we going again?” The slurring is getting worse.

Ian gently nudges Julian’s head forward. “To my apartment. It’s just a few more blocks.” 

Julian frowns and looks over the street. “Don’t you have a car? Why are we walking?” Wispy edges of an accent slip through, french possibly. 

“Thanks to you, it’s still with Ashlyn.” Ian glances both ways before crossing the street, urging Julian to move faster. They were too exposed without the shelter of the buildings. “If we’re lucky, she’ll bring it back.”

Julian hums. “She will.”

“And why do you say that?” Ian looks down the road, listening for the sounds of sirens. It is quiet. 

“I’m pretty certain she’s the reason why I broke out.” 

Ian will have to ask her about that one after all this is over. He glances between the front door and the fire escape. While he trusts the guard, it wasn’t enough to be certain that he wouldn’t call the police the moment he sees Julian. “How do you feel about stairs?”

“In general or about climbing them?” Julian grimances and shakes his head. “Nevermind, I’m saying not good about both.”

That sounds like another story that Ian doesn’t have the time to extract. “Keep your hood up and let me do the talking.”

Julian nods and looks down to the ground. Everything identifiable was hidden, with the exception of Julian’s rusty brown hair. Luckily for the both of them that the color’s common enough. 

Ian pushes through the front door, the chime ringing through the vacant lobby. The guard looks up and greets Ian with a nod of his head. “Back already? Your shift end early or something?”

Ian grins and hopes it doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “Yeah, I got a little caught up.”

The guard looks over to Julian, who keeps his gaze firmly to the floor. “Poor fellow. Make sure to give him plenty of water.”

He thought Julian was drunk, which worked perfectly in Ian’s favor. “Of course.”

Ian steps into the elevator and presses the button to his floor. The guard turns away from them as the elevator door closes. Julian leans against the railing, knuckles whitening. “That went well. Although I think this’ll be a little worse than a hangover.” Julian tries to grin but it comes out lopsided and pained.

“You’ll be fine. Between the two of us, we have to have enough medical knowledge.” Ian says. The elevator dings as it stops. Julian winces when Ian pulls him out. “Keep your head down. My neighbors are nosy.”

The hallway is silent with the expectation of their footsteps against the wooden flooring and the occasional pained gasp that Julian tries to stifle. They reach Ian’s apartment without incident and Ian slowly extracts his arm from Julian’s waist. “Can you lean against the wall without getting blood on it?” That’ll be something hard to explain. 

Julian gingerly presses a hand against the wall, the one not covered in blood, and nods. Ian steps towards the door and pulls out his keys. He slips one into the lock and opens the door. It’s warm to the point of stifling. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, it takes all of ten minutes for his apartment to cool down after turning on the air conditioner. But Julian was already suffering from a fever before dragging him into his apartment. What if it made his fever worse?

Why does he care? Julian can suffer in the heat for ten measly minutes for what he’s done. For the fact that he killed—

No, he can’t start thinking like that. Not when he’s harboring the very man under his roof. 

“C’mon.” Ian pushes the door open wide. He snakes an arm around Julian’s waist and pulls him inside. He drapes Julian over the couch, stripping the jackets off him. He grabs the first aid he has tucked in a cabinet in the bathroom, flicking on every light he passes and turning on the air conditioning. It shutters on with a click. 

Julian opens his eyes at the sound of Ian walking, half-lidded and unfocused. “It’s hot.”

Ian opens the first aid and pulls out an assortment of equipment. “It’ll cool down soon.” Ian grabs the scissors from the table and starts cutting away Julian’s shirt. It’s stiff with blood. He turns to Julian, placing a hand on his face to get him to focus. “Now, I need you to answer my questions. Can you do that?”

Julian nods, his eyes darting between Ian and the scissors. “Yeah.”

“Is the bullet still in your wound?” Ian grabs a pair of latex gloves and pulls them on.

Julian narrows his eyes and for a moment Ian was afraid he didn’t know. “I couldn’t remove it.”

This was the tricky part, if the bullet even warranted removal. It was in Julian’s shoulder and if it restricted his moment, it had to go. Otherwise, he’ll have to leave it in. Neither of them had a medical degree. “Is it preventing you from moving your arm?”

Julian shifts his arm and grits his teeth. “Y-Yeah.”

Ian grabs the tweezes and drags a lamp over. He opens the pill bottle rolling around, shaking a few of the leftover Vicodin into his palm. This wasn’t exactly legal but he'd already crossed that line when he picked up Julain. He presses the pills against Julian’s lips. “Swallow these. They’ll help with pain.”

Julian opened his mouth and dry swallowed them. “I hope you didn’t poison me.”

“You’ll just have to trust me.” Ian wipes the wound with some gauze and gently opens with his fingers. Julian hisses. Ian forces himself to ignore him.

He peers into the wound. He can see the silver glint of the bullet among the reddish muscle and white tendons and ligaments. He can barely make out the pale strip of Julian’s collar bone. Blood bubbles up between his fingers, running down Julian’s skin. He pries open the wound. Julian screams but it’s muffled by bandages he shoved into his mouth. 

Ian carefully inserts the tweezers, doing everything in his power to keep his hands steady. He grabs onto the bullet and tries to pull it out. It slips from his grasp. 

“Shit!” Ian hisses and Julian groans. Ian wipes off the tweezers and tries again. He’s slower this time, pulling the bullet out by millimeters rather than centimeters. 

Relief floods through him as he drops the bullet into the gauze. Blood rushes out of the wound, stronger and faster than before. He grabs another piece of gauze and presses it against the wound. Julian’s gone quiet and Ian can’t think about what that might mean. He does press his fingers against Julian’s throat and finds a thready pulse. It’s all that he can take.

Ian leans against the gauze with his elbow, it must hurt terribly but he has no other option, and threads the needle. He removes the gauze and gets to work. He rhymeticly inserts the needle and pulls, closing the wound little by little each time. As soon as it’s closed, he ties it off and tapes a square of gauze to the wound. 

He leans back with a sigh and closes his eyes. The worst of it was over. All the rest of it was cleaning an already bandaged wound and investigating for additional wounds. Ian drops the needle, used gauze, and bullet into a plastic bag and seals it. He places it next to the first aid kit and wipes off his gloves. He carefully turns Julian around so he can see his other arm, blood dotting the dirtied bandages. When was the last time that Julian changed them?

Ian starts the slow process of unwrapping the bandages, with them sticking with dried blood. The sight beneath it wasn’t pretty. Severe burns wrap around Julian’s arm, the shape remnant of a lightning bolt. It looks like a Lichtenberg scar but Ian’s never seen anyone this serious. The burn is weeping sluggishly, a mixture of blood and a clear, tacky liquid. His skin is bright red with blisters lining the lightning bolt shape. Ian never expected something like this. He doesn’t even know how someone would get a wound like this.

He doesn’t know if he wants to.

The burns winds up the whole extent of his arm and spread across his shoulder blade in a hauntingly beautiful design, if it was a tattoo rather than a burn. Ian grabs the burn ointment and gently rubs it over Julian’s skin. He takes care not to pop any of the blisters or agitate the skin anymore than necessary. Once he is finished, he grabs a clean roll of bandages and starts to wrap the wound. He makes sure that it’s only tight enough to stay on, trying to limit the amount of pain Julian has. 

Afterwards, he cleans up the rest of the bandages and shoves it into another bag, stripping off his gloves to do the same. He throws that one away and puts the one with the bullet into the first aid kit. Maybe it could be used as evidence that Julian was being coerced into this. 

~~(Why was he _protecting_ Julian?)~~

Ian places the first aid kit on the floor beside the couch. He’ll need it to change Julian’s bandages tomorrow. He stands and runs a hand through his hair. This a first, he has to admit. He’s never had to patch up a criminal in his living room before. 

He grabs a couple blankets from his room and drapes one over Julian. He shifts slightly in his sleep, using his burned arm to drag it closer. Something burns within Ian’s chest and he has to turn away.

He claims the recliner in the corner of the room and pulls the other blanket over him. He doesn’t even bother kicking off his shoes before turning over and letting sleep take over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	8. abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth holds Theodore one last time before he leaves their father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first story in this little group of stories not focused on Julian. It'll be about four one-shots until we get back to him. All these stories exist in the same timeline as Julian, with the exception of the chapters labelled as AU.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: implied abuse, psychological abuse, child abuse

Seth winds the bandage around his wrist one last time, securing it and tying it off. Other than the obvious indicator of his bandages, the break can’t be seen. He lifts his arm experimentally, rotating it slowly and closing his fingers into a fist. The bones ache but it was more manageable than before, the pain more constant but less sharp.

He returns the remaining bandages and gauze to the medic kit and shoves it into his backpack. It jostles against the assortment of cash he’s stolen from his father and the ID he smuggled in. Not that he’d get to use it that much. The moment his father realizes he’s gone, a man hunt will be sent out for him. Even without his magic signature, he’ll have a hard enough time keeping under the radar. Using it will practically make that impossible.

But if he wants to leave Maetus, he needs a functioning ID. And if he’s lucky, the guards stationed at the border will hate his father as much as he does. If not, that’s what his magic’s for. 

He zips his backpack closed and pulls on his jacket. The fabric is familiar against his skin, once soft but now worn from use. His fingers find the small tear along the cuff on one of the sleeves. His father sewed a tracker into fabric and Seth only found it from the small pulse of magic it emitted. As much as it angered him, he didn’t put it past his father to do something like that. It’s a miracle that he didn’t put it under Seth’s skin.

He knows that there isn’t anything there. His magic owns his body, it wouldn’t let anything else in. 

The track’s tucked into one of the drawers in his desk. He had half a mind to shatter it in his hand; it would've been so easy. His magic never fails to remind him of that. Everything fell apart in the wake of it. 

But there was something far more beneficial he could do with the tracker. Every moment his father thought Seth was in his room was another moment of head start that he had. And when he was already starting too many steps behind, every second counted. 

Seth stands and slings his bag over his shoulder. He gives one glance over his room before stepping out and locking the door. It wouldn’t stop his father but it should act as a deterrent for another six hours. 

His steps echo through the silent hallways, light from the lamps outside cutting in through the windows. It’s a soft blue, ribboned by the dark framing and Seth’s own shadow. 

“Seth?” Theodore’s voice cuts through the silence, his confusion evident.

Seth whips around, tightening his grip on the straps of his bag. His magic flickers involuntarily and Theodore flinches. “Theo?” Seth asks, glancing between Theodore and the shadowed hall. If Theodore was here, how far was their father? “What are you doing up?”

“I thought I heard you.” Theodore yawns, his magic flickering. For a moment his form wavers and Seth can see a fractured image of Kei. He must’ve been the last person their father had him mimic. 

“Just go back to sleep. I’ll be fine.” If Seth could convince Theodore their interaction was nothing more than something he fabricated in a dream, it would buy back some of the time he’s losing. Assuming that their father wasn’t anywhere near. 

“No.” Theodore blinks, shedding any lingering remains of sleep. He takes a step forward Seth but stops when Seth steps back. “You never told me why you’re up.”

Seth clenches his hands into fists, sharp pain darting through his broken one. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

“You’re leaving?” Theodore’s voice wavers, drawn thin with hurt. “Why?”

“I need to do this.” Seth tries to keep his voice down but it raises in response his magic, red hot frustration pooling in his chest. It presses against his lungs in ways that make it hard to breathe.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” Theodore’s voice shrinks, thready and unstable. 

“I _can’t_!” The words tear through Seth’s throat, ugly and true. The moment he leaves, he won’t be able to step in here again. “I can’t stay here any longer.”

“Take me with you!” Theodore sobs, his voice sputtering out into a choked sob. “ _Please_.”

Seth swallows, jagged guilt digging his throat. His voice is impossibly small, weak and cracking. “You have to stay here.”

“ _Why_?” Theodore’s magic crackles and for a moment all Seth sees is fire. But it fades back into the inky hallway when Seth’s magic flares. His magic curls back into the shadows, lurking and slinking. “Why do you get to _leave_?”

It’s because he’s old enough to run. But Seth can’t tell Theodore that. “I’ll come back.” The lie’s bitter in Seth’s mouth, sticking in all the places it shouldn’t. “One day, I’ll be here for you.”

“Promise?” Theodore won’t look Seth in the eyes, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I promise.” The promise burns as he says it. Lying has never hurt this much. 

Theodore rushes into Seth, wrapping his arms around Seth’s torso. Seth can barely stop his magic from lashing out. Theodore’s sobs are muffled by his shirt and he awkwardly rubs a hand down Theodore’s back. 

Theodore’s sobs eventually peter out but he doesn’t let go. Seth had to physically push him back. If he didn’t, he didn’t think he’d ever let go. 

A whimper works it way into Seth’s throat and he does everything to keep it from showing on his face. “Goodbye, Theo.”

“Don’t say goodbye.” Theodore grins. It is watery and obviously forced. “You’re coming back.”

Something breaks within Seth. Something that he doesn’t think he’s getting back. “See you later, then.”

“See ya, Seth.” Theodore gives him a wave.

Seth returns it and turns around. He continues down the hall without looking back.

——

Theodore watches as Seth leaves, desperately wanting to follow him. But he stays in place. Seth said he was coming back. Theodore had to trust.

He doesn't know what he’d do if Seth didn’t come. 

A hand rests against his shoulder and Theodore flinches. A chill runs down his spine, forcing him to stay in place. He tilts his head upwards to meet cruel, twisting golden eyes. “Father.”

“Do you believe me now, Theodore?” His father says. The hand on Theodore’s shoulder tightens, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. 

“Seth said he’d come back.” Theodore’s voice wavers and he feels tears hot behind his eyes. But he doesn’t let them fall. 

“Do you trust him?” His father’s voice dips dangerously, edged in a power that Theodore could never possess.

“No.” Yes, yes, _yes_ , Theodore trusts Seth. But he can’t tell his father that. He might drag Seth back here and _hurt_ him.

“Good.” His father pats his shoulder and every time his hand brushes against Theodore’s skin it _burns_. “You were always the smart one.”

“May I go to bed now?” Theodore asks, unable to focus on keeping his voice from wavering and not flinching away from his father.

“Yes. I’ll speak more with you tomorrow.” His father smiles at him and it almost looks friendly. But something darker lurks within it. He steps away from Theodore and disappears down the hall, in the opposite direction from Seth.

Theodore stands in the painted blue hallway, something opening up inside of him. He later learns, years and years after Seth’s promise, this was the budding devastation of betrayal. 

Because Seth was never planning on returning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	9. ritual sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wren needs June for everything to be complete. She’s her sacrifice. Her being his sister just makes it better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun to write. For context, this occurs in what I consider the history of my current canon, the time with Julian and co. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: blood, injury, drugs, involuntary drugging, character death

Wren twirls the flute in his hand, deftly keeping in between his fingers. The deep purple-filled cracks wink at him every time it passes. He can still feel the faint echo of Case’s magic, no matter how hard he tries to cover it. It patches the thin fractures threatening to spill the magic held in the flute. An emptiness rests within it, drawing him back to the shrine.

He always thought it was from the flute breaking. The crystalline exterior was cracked, it was easy to assume that some of the magic leaked out. But, even after Case’s repairs, this emptiness stays. It was only afterwards did Wren realize it was always there, only that he couldn’t perceive it before. 

And now that he knows that it’s there, it consumes his every thought. It’s an ache that he can’t cure, a longing that never can be fulfilled. Unless he returns to the shrine. 

It calls him in his every waking moment, begging him to bring the flute back. To summon its twin. His connection with the flute grows more and more unstable each day and he knows that this is the only way to fix it.

But it isn’t going to be that simple. He called forth this flute for a reason, it resonated with him. The other one won’t be as easily coaxed out, their magic less compatible but equally complimentary. He required something to call this flute to him. 

He’s read the words on the walls. Even the blood of someone compatible—worthy as the writing described, but Wren through that was too crude of a word to use. Worthiness wasn’t something measurable—was enough. 

Now, killing isn’t something that particularly compels him but it doesn't repulse him either. It is necessary and he leaves it at that. 

“Wren!” June calls out, running across the small courtyard. She holds a small, wrapped basket in one hand and waves with the other. “You’re here early.”

Wren dissipates the flute with a spark of his magic—everything within him _purrs_ when he uses it—and leans forward. “It’s been too long since we’ve spoken, I couldn’t miss a minute of it.”

June grins and sits across from him, setting the basket on the table. She unwraps the covering and sets out a few pastries. “The baker recommended these.”

“They look delicious.” He says. He couldn’t bring himself to care about whether the pastries tasted good or not, but he doesn’t let any of that show on his face. “Shall I get the tea?”

“Make sure to put sugar in mine.” She drops the basket on the floor beside the chair, straightening out her skirt with a simple flourish.

“You think I’d forget that?” He lets the easy grin rest on his face before turning back inside. He pours out two cups of tea and spoons sugar into June’s and honey in his. He glances over to the courtyard. June isn’t even looking in his direction, content with inspecting the pastries set out on the table or the flowers freshly planted. 

Wren removes the thin vial from his pocket, the clear liquid refracting the light. He pours it into June’s cup, stirring it before adding another spoon of sugar. He’s heard that the drug is bitter and hard to mask. But it’s potent and that’s more important. He needs something that acts without the necessity of having someone drink the whole vial.

He slips the vial back into his pocket and grabs the two cups, purposely keeping his close to his chest. He doubts that he’d mess the two up, but the consequences would be difficult to recover from. 

Wren places a cup in front of June and his cup beside him. She smiles and brings it up her lips. “Thank you.” 

Wren sips from his own cup. June frowns, eyes narrowing and lips pressing together. Fractured alarm bunches in his chest. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you sure you gave me the correct cup?” June sips it again, the confusion spreading. But her hands start to shake. “It’s a little bitter.”

“I put honey in mine, it’ll be sweet regardless.” Wren shrugs, placing his cup onto it’s saucer. “I did use a new blend. Maybe it’s more bitter than expected.”

June practically drops her cup, it clattering against the saucer and tea sloshing over the rim. “Is yours—” She pauses, his eyes shutting. “—like that too?”

Wren stands and wraps his arms around her, stopping her from slumping out of the chair. She turns to look at him, barely able to focus on his face. “What’s wrong?” She slurs her words.

“Everything’ll be okay.” Wren tells her, running a hand through her hair. She leans against him and stops fighting. She falls limp. Wren adjusts her so she can sit without his support. He gets to work cleaning up their table. 

He disposes of the pastries and tea, dumping the liquid over the grass. He breaks the basket under foot and throws it into the trash. There’s no point in him bringing it. 

Just before grabbing June, he runs a finger along the hilt of his knife. It’s still there, resting out of view. It settles any remaining nerves, just as holding the flute does. He turns and picks June, carrying her out of the courtyard. 

——

Wren lights the torches lining the shrine with a spark of his magic, the room bathed in a pale red gleam. June lays in the center of the room, still with the exception of the slight rise and fall of her chest. Her wrists and ankles are bound with a thick rope lined in his magic. She wouldn’t be able to break out using any normal means. 

Wren sits beside her, gently holding in case she wakes earlier than expected. He can’t be certain how much of the drug she ingested but by his calculations, she should be waking any minutes.

The thin traces of her magic emerges first, flickering within her chest and spreading slow through her body. He removes his knife from its sheath and tilts her head back. The pale strip of her throat lays exposed, the faint imprint of bluish veins can be seen.

Her eyes flutter open before they’re blown wide. She glances at the room, eyes flickering between the walls and Wren. She whimpers and Wren rubs a hand against the base of her neck. The other rests the knife against her throat. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

He almost presses the blade down when a voice stops him. 

“Wren!” Case calls out, vicious pain threaded through his voice. Edrea and Kit are a few paces behind him, their own magic flicking although they may not know it. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Case was the other person he’d considered using, but he felt how his flute responded to Case’s magic. He couldn’t risk losing his flute to gain another. “You guys came faster than I thought you would.”

“You didn’t make it easy.” Kit shifts, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword against his hip. “But you forgot to not leave any witnesses.”

Wren hums. He thought that he covered all his bases. “That’s unfortunate.” He brings the knife back to June’s throat.

“You haven’t answered my question, Wren.” Case’s voice is low, humming with a dangerous energy. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t ignore it.” Wren finds himself admitting. The words tumble out his mouth, too bitter for them to comprehend. That’s why he didn’t tell them. They would never understand. “It was longing for it’s twin.”

Case glances over to the wall, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Wren imagines himself plunging his knife into it. “There’s another one?”

“It won’t come as easily to my call.” Wren continues stroking June’s hair. “But with her, it’ll respond.”

“You can’t do that!” Case shouts. Notes of despair and desperation tear through his voice. “She’s our _sister_!”

“That changes nothing.” Wren doesn’t bother listening for Case’s response.

He drags the knife across his sister’s throat.

Blood drips down her neck, a brilliant red. It glistens in the light of his magic. Her screams echo through the room, haunting and guttural. Wren just tears through her vocal cords and her screams turn to choked gasps as blood fills her lungs.

Case charges towards him but Wren summons his flute with a flicker of his wrist. He stops and Wren can _taste_ his fear. 

June’s blood fills the well, spreading through the room. Wren discards her body when it’s full, letting it collapse to the side. The room hums with power, volatile and entirely his own.

Wren shoves his hand into the pool and holds the flute above it. He reaches deep within himself and _pulls_. The room shudders and the three people before him stumble. He can sense their magic flowing through their blood beyond what he could see.

He speaks in a tongue lost to time. “ _Key from the divine, one that can unlock the way to Hell. Arise._ ”

Everything goes white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	10. blood loss, internal bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everly’s dizzy and he needs something not even from this world. Brooklyn doesn’t know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written with my limited medical knowledge from volunteering in hospital, particularly in the ER. Also, Everly exists in the same as Julian.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: blood, injury, hospitals

Everly heaves in deep breaths, his eyes wide and darting. Sweat collects at his brows, sticking the wispy threads of silver hair to his forehead. He leans against the door frame, his knuckles whitening. Brooklyn stands a few paces away, her hands hovering outstretched. “Everly, what’s wrong?”

He shoves a hand into his pocket, pulling out a thin, translucent vial. A deep blue liquid rests inside, charged with an energy that Brooklyn can’t decipher. It tingles across her skin almost like electricity. It was a mirror of the magic Everly wields. “I’ll be fine.” Everly’s voice wavers, and he licks his lips. He opens the vial and drinks from it.

“What is that?” The question tumbles past her lips before she can stop it. She back tracks quickly. “If you don’t mind telling me.”

He caps the vial, shoving it back into his pocket. He draws in a breath, slower this time. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s magic. In a more concentrated form.”

“And you can drink it?” Brooklyn could barely grasp the concept of magic. She only believed Everly after a demonstration of the strange substance. It still confused her to no end.

Every narrows his eyes, brows pressing together in concentration. “Yes, technically. But we don’t go around drinking magic, it can complicate things.” He glances at her, and frowns at her confusion. “Magic exists in everything in Sytaria. The atmosphere, the produce, even me. But…” Everly tapers off, looking away from Brooklyn with an expression she can’t decipher.

“It doesn’t exist on Earth.” She finishes. “That’s why you have to drink it.”

Everly nods. “I want to make sure that I’m not left without magic.”

It’s barely detectable but Brooklyn can taste his magic, bitter and bright against her tongue. A thought slowly crawls through her mind and she doesn’t know what to do with it. It can hurt to ask. “Can I try some?”

“No!” Everly voice cracks with something she can’t identify and he shoves a hand into his pockets. Magic arcs along his skin, the bright blue thin sparks against his clothes. Brooklyn steps back, fear running through her chest. She can’t stop it. He sighs, his voice softer when he continues. “I don’t think it’ll be a good idea.”

Brooklyn accepts the answer, even if it feels like Everly’s hiding something. “Alright.”

Everly pushes away from the wall and grabs the keys from the table. “I’ll be back.”

He leaves before she can respond.

——

The lights in the hallway before her apartment flicker and buzz. She slips the key into her door, unlocking it and stepping inside. She’s greeted with a thick darkness and the heavy sound of coughing. She turns the lights on, stepping into her apartment. “Everly? Vanessa?”

There wasn’t a response for either. She didn’t expect one from Vanessa, she was often working late. But Everly should be here. He told her that he wouldn’t go running off alone anymore. Despite the lack of magic, her world is more dangerous than Everly knows.

The living’s empty, the blankets spilling off and piling onto the floor. The coughing continues and Brooklyn traces it to the bathroom. They start to sound more wet. She knocks on the door. “Everly, are you okay?”

Coughing fills the silence between the two of them but it subsides and Everly’s voice croaks out from the other side. “I’m fine.”

“Can I come in?” Brooklyn doesn’t trust him to be honest. He’s been hiding something for a while and she might finally get some answers. She doesn’t wait for his response before opening the door. 

Everly stands leaning against the sink half-dressed, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Large bruises mar the surface of his skin, a deep rich purple color hinting with wisps of red and bright against the pallor. He holds a bloodied towel to his lips, his teeth stained red. 

“What’s wrong?” Brooklyn whispers, leaning over and opening the cabinet beneath the sink.

Everly places a hand on her arm. “You don’t have to do that. I have it under control.”

Brooklyn pulls out the first aid kit and drops it on the counter. “You call this having it under control?” She gestures to the towel and bruises. “I don’t even know how you’d get something like this.”

From Everly’s gaze, she could tell he does. He tightens his grip on the towel. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Brooklyn’s hands shake as she opens the kit. Band-Aids and neosporin rest against a sparse amount of gauze. She shuffles around until she finds some bruise ointment. She opens it and holds it out to him.

He sighs and leans further into the counter. “That won’t help.”

“Then what will?” Brooklyn throws it back into the kit. “The CVS is open 24/7. They must—”

“Brooklyn stop.” Everly’s voice is pained and fragile. There’s no echo of the magic it usually possesses. “Nothing from _this_ world will work.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice is small and she doesn't want to accept what she knows she should. 

“It’s that—” Everly leans over the counter, digging his fingers into the plaster. He coughs and shudders through him. He sways and Brooklyn grabs onto him, his skin cold and clammy beneath her touch. She guides him against the wall, sitting on the floor beside him.

“Should I call an ambulance?” Her voice trembles. She has no idea if they can even do anything. 

Everly shakes his head but blood seeps through his fingers and she can’t just sit there and _watch_.

“I’ll be right back.” She leans him against the corner of the wall.

“No—” Everly coughs, the words catching between the blood coming up. He turns over and vomits on the floor. It’s just as bloody. “—don’t.”

“They’ll _help_ you.” Brooklyn leaves and grabs her phone from the table. Her hands shake as she dials 911. 

It only rings once before it connects. A woman speaks from the other side. “911, what’s your emergency?”

Brooklyn walks back to the bathroom. Everly’s slumped against the wall, his hand limp at his side and his head’s lolling. “My roommate was coughing up blood and now he’s passed out.” Her voice is edging on hysteric. She reaches over and presses her fingers against his throat. His pulse is fast but weak.

“Can you give me you and your roommate’s names?”

“I’m Brooklyn and his name’s Everly.”

“Alright Brooklyn, can you give me your address?” 

Brooklyn gives her address. “It’s the third room on the right. We’re in the bathroom. I think the front door is unlocked”

“An ambulance is coming your way. ETA is about ten minutes.” Clicking bubbles up from the receiver. “Are there any visible wounds?”

“No. There are only bruises.” Brooklyn her hand against his throat, feeling his pulse and hearing the ragged sound of his breathing.

“Don’t try to move him until the paramedics arrive.”

“W-Will they come in time?” Brooklyn asks, unable to stop herself. Every minute feels like it’s dragging out.

“They’ll be there. They’re five minutes out.”

Draws in a shaking breath. Everly can hold out for that long. His breathing is labored but it isn’t weak and his pulse still beats against her fingers. “Alright, thank you.” She hangs up the phone.

The next five minutes are both the longest and shortest she’s experienced. The paramedics slam open her door and rush into her apartment. Two of them crouch beside Everly and the other drags her out into the living room. Brooklyn is asked questions that she can’t remember, her gaze trained on the bathroom. The paramedic placed her in such a way that she can’t look in. She doesn’t know if it’s better or worse.

The two paramedics pull Everly out on a stretcher and Brooklyn follows them. They carry him down the four flights of stairs, going as quickly as they can. She watches them, feeling detached and disconnected. She can feel the gaze of her neighbor’s on her back but she doesn’t even give them a glance. 

She hadn’t realized it, but she had Everly’s coat bunched up in her hands. It had unraveled from the scarf he so often weaves it into. Something settles in the pit of her stomach. That couldn’t be good.

The paramedics load Everly into the ambulance and Brooklyn joins them. Once inside, they start hooking him up to monitors and place an oxygen mask over his face. His breath fogs it, mixing with blood at the occasional cough.

“Pulse is dropping.” One of the paramedics calls out.

“Ready the defibrillator.” Another one responses.

Everything shudders to a shaky stop as she watches the first paramedic apply electrodes to Everly’s chest and hears the heart monitor flatline.

“Clear!” The second paramedic calls out. The other two paramedics step back and the second one turns on the machine.

Everly’s body arcs and all the lights in the ambulance flicker. But the heart monitor resumes beating and Brooklyn can breathe again.

The first paramedic removes the electrodes and wipes off the gel on Everly’s chest. The second paramedic turns to the driver. “ETA?”

“Less than two minutes.” The driver responds, taking a sharp right.

The second paramedic nods and continues to watch the monitors. 

They pull into the hospital and roll Everly into a room. Brooklyn waits outside the room, watching the nurses and doctor work from a far.

——

Everly wakes in bits in pieces, everything a murky blur of half formed memories. He’s greeted by a white room, wires and monitors flanking him on both sides. An IV in tucked into his elbow, a bag of blood and a solution he couldn’t identify are connected to it. He resists the urge to remove it. For now.

He shifts, his chest aching. His magic twists inside of him, a hunger that he can’t bay gnawing at his stomach. His gaze settles on Brooklyn sitting curled up in one of the chairs. His jacket is in her lap, bunched up in one of her fists. He pushes himself into a sitting position. “Brooklyn.” He hisses.

She startles awake, almost falling out of the chair. “Everly! You’re awake! I should call—”

“Don’t.” Everly pushes her hand away from the call button. “They’ll only interfere.”

“They want to help you.” Brooklyn glances back at the call button but settles back. “It's more than what you can say about yourself.”

Everly doesn’t dignify a response to that. “You have my clothes, right?”

Brooklyn blinks at him, confusion flooding her expression. “Yes.” She starts, hesitant. “But where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m getting out of here.” Everly gently extracts the IV, letting it drop. 

“Don't do that!” Brooklyn stops him from pulling off the electrodes. “Those are helping you.”

“I already told you this.” Everly hits her hands away and pulls off the monitors. It only takes him turning around and shutting them off to silence them. “Nothing here can help me.”

“But you’re doing better here than anywhere else.” Brooklyn hovers over him, biting her lip. 

“Not if I can get home.” Everly swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. He’s steady enough. “Now give me my clothes.”

“You’re going back?” Brooklyn’s voice wavers, a strange mix between confused and pained.

“Yes.” When Brooklyn doesn’t move, Everly holds his hand out to her. “I can’t survive here.”

She frowns but hands him the bag with his clothes and drapes his jacket over the bed.

Everly pilfers through the bag and grabs his pants. He pulls them one and removes his gown. He puts on his jacket, buttoning it up to his throat and zipping on his shoes. Brooklyn watches the whole thing with a half-lidded gaze. 

He removes the vial from his pocket. It pulses against his magic and everything within him burns. The vial’s only half full, but it’ll have to do. He uncaps it and down the entire thing. It’s bitter and runs sticky down his throat, settling heavy in his stomach. But his magic coaxes to life in his palm. 

He summons his book with a flick of his wrist. Brooklyn’s eyes widen and she steps back. “What is that?” She licks her lips. “What are you doing?!”

“I need to remove our influence.” Everly flips through his book, landing on a specific page. Kaiden rests on his shoulder, peering over the pages. 

“Y’know, there are easier ways to deal with this.” Kaiden flips the pages to another spell. He taps his fingers on it.

Everly doesn’t respond. He flips back to the page he was on and shoots Kaiden a glare. Kaiden steps away with a shrug of his shoulders and a thin grin. He disappears.

Kaiden’s gotten more irritable since the last time Everly’s seen him. 

Everly presses a hand against the book and tears the world apart.

Only to rebuild it the exact way he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	11. struggling, crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire doesn’t know what’s loss until she no longer has her wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interesting factor with this scene is that this is the point when I decided to continue this story into multiple books. Now I have at least two series planned out with Julian.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: drugs, involuntary drug use, limb removal

Claire lays against the cold, stone floor, her hand digging into the crook of her elbow. The inject site no longer hurts but the silence that it brought is suffocating. It’s as if all her senses have been muted, washed out to the point of barely resembling what they were before. Guilt pools deep within her chest, sticky and unbearably hot. They forced Julian to live like this for days on end. No wonder he was so irritable. 

She shifts, her head falling to the right. The bars obstruct her view, cutting it into strips, but she can clearly see Ian in the cell across from her. She’s fairly certain that Ashlyn rests in the one beside her and Milo in the one diagonal. She can only assume that Michela, Ellie, and Julian are in the ones out of her vision.

If she had her magic, she would be able to tell without even opening her eyes.

Ian groans from his cell and she can hear the rustle of clothes. She stands up and presses her face against the bars. Luckily they don’t hurt her. “Ian!”

Ian sits up, his eyes narrowed. He glances over to her and stands quickly, practically stumbling into the wall. “Claire! What’s going on?” He looks between the bars, eyes darting.

“I don’t know.” Claire bites back the whimper building in her chest. “Can you see anyone else?”

“Ashlyn’s beside you.” Ian says. His voice strains as he leans out between the bars. “I think Ellie’s beside her.”

“Milo’s next to you and I think it’s Michela next to him.” Claire could barely make out the soft grey of Michela’s sweater.

“So the only one who’s missing is Julian.” Ian’s grip tightens around the bars, his knuckles whitening. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Just because he isn’t here doesn’t mean he’s with them.” But Claire couldn’t stop the growing doubt. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the only member of a Thieves Guild in their group is the one that isn’t there.

“It was his idea to come here in the first place.” Ian releases the bars and leans against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “And apparently his _father_ is here as well.”

“Maybe if we let him explain himself, we’d know.” Claire tries. She doesn’t quite believe the words herself but it feels wrong to not defend Julian when he wasn’t present himself to.

Ian barks out a laugh, bitter and mirthless. “Don’t you start too. We already have Michela jumping up to defend him, we don’t need another one.”

“I’m not defending him.” Claire instinctively reaches for her magic and flinches when all she brushes is a chilling emptiness. “I just want to know what’s the truth.”

Ian gestures to the cell, the smile tight on his face. “The truth is that we’re here and Julian isn’t.” 

“We can’t take this for face value.” Claire tries to keep the tremor out of her voice but slips through the cracks. “We have no idea where he is.”

“My point exactly.” Ian grins, self-satisfaction burning bright within it. 

Claire crosses her arms over her chest, goose flesh riddling them. She looks away from Ian, unable to understand why he’s being so hard on Julian. Yes the circumstances weren’t shining a very favorable light on him, but she couldn’t put the whole blame of their situation on him. They did bind and drag him to the front door themselves. He might’ve led them here but they put themselves into this situation. 

“Claire? Ian?” Ashlyn’s voice filters up from her cell, thick with confusion and disorientation.

Ian glances over to her with a side eye. Claire steps up to the bars, shoving her face through them. “Ashlyn! I’m next to you.”

Ashlyn sticks her head out and peers over to Claire. She flings out her hand and Claire responds in kind. Their fingers barely brush together. “Are you hurt?” Ashlyn asks, her voice thick with concern.

“No.” Claire twists more of her body through the bars and she can grab onto Ashlyn’s fingers. “They only suppressed my magic.”

Ashlyn nods and glances over to Ian. “They suppressed yours too?”

Ian didn’t look over to them, keeping his gaze firmly on the ceiling and his arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah.” Something flickers in his voice and it takes Claire a moment to realize it’s bitter self-deprecation and frustration. 

Ashlyn turns to the cells on the other side of her. “Ellie’s beside me while Michela’s across from her.” Ashlyn gestures with her other hand to the cell in question. “The only person I don’t see is Julian.”

Claire looks over to Ian. His expression tightens but he doesn’t say anything. “I wouldn’t go there. All we know is that he isn’t here.” Claire says in lieu of an answer.

The question is clearly written on Ashlyn’s face but she doesn’t say anything further. They sit like this for a while, content with their hands brushing. Ian doesn’t look at them, electing to the glare at the door leading out.

The door clatters open and Alden walks in. A predatory smile rests easy on his lips, natural and instinctive. His eyes are cold and sharp and a shiver runs down Claire’s smile when his gaze lands on her. She tears her hand from Ashlyn’s and clutches it to her chest. 

“I expected more of you to be awake.” Alden’s voice is smooth, almost enough to hide the falsity of it.

“Alden.” Ashlyn spits the name, glaring. Her hands shake at her sides. “What do you think you're doing?”

Alden steps forward, resting a hand on the lock of Claire’s cage. Claire stumbles back, pulling on magic that wasn’t there. Alden pulls a key out of his pocket. “I’d tell you, but I doubt you would understand. It’s obvious that foresight isn’t your strong suit.”

“Step away from that cell.” Ashlyn’s voice is low, dangerously so. It’s powerful even without the addition of her magic. “Or you’re not going to like who you’ll see.”

Alden unlocks the cell and Claire steps back into the wall, digging her fingers into the concrete. She desperately reaches for something that isn’t there. “You can’t scare me with Morgan’s name.” Alden says. “I’ve tamed much worse.”

He steps into the cell despite Ashlyn’s screams, which have become more nonsensical in her frustration. He reaches a hand to her like she’d willingly go anywhere with him. “Go away.” Her voice is unsteady and weak, holding nowhere near the strength that Ashlyn’s does. But she hopes that it gets her point across.

“Now Claire.” The way that Alden says her name chokes her breath in her throat. “No matter what you try, you’re still coming with me.”

“No.” This time the word is stronger. Claire adds a glare to punctuate it.

Alden sighs but it’s more resigned than dejected. “We can do it your way, if you want.”

Claire tenses but it still doesn’t prepare her for what Alden does. He pounces and grabs Claire’s wrist. She tries to wrench in free but he ignites his magic against her skin. Normally her magic responds in kind, flaring to protect her from the worse. But nothing stops the magic from brushing against her skin. 

Pain runs up her arm and she screams.

Her knees buckle and Alden drags her out of the cell. Ashlyn yells out, with Ian joining her a moment later. Claire tries to kick at Alden, flailing out with her arms to scratch anything she can get purchase. But he carries her out in such a way that she can’t break free. 

Alden drags her through hallway after hallway and she eventually stops struggling. She has to save whatever strength she had left for when Alden releases her. 

He stops in a room, shoving her into a chair not unlike one used for massages. Alden binds her wrists and ankles. She tugs against them but they won’t budge. 

Another set of footsteps echo in the room but Claire can’t turn her head to see. They speak, their voice low and rough. Dissimilar to Alden’s. “Is that her?”

It sounds like Julian’s father.

A hand rotates her wrist, exposing the pale underside. The touch is chilled against her skin. “Yes Raymond.” Alden says. Something twists inside of her. Wasn’t that the name of the Royal Scientist’s brother? “This is the Ayers. Her wings should be the same length as yours.”

A chill pools in her chest and she can’t breathe. “W-What are you guys doing?”

Metal clatters beside her. “Don’t worry.” Alden says. He brings a needle up to the soft inner flesh of her arm. He presses against her veins before pressing the needle into her skin. He pushes down the stopper.

Everything within her ignites with an unexplainable electricity. Her magic fights against her as she tries to wrangle it into control, it wanting to obey her commands and shrink away from her. She loses and her wings activate in a brilliant spark of magic.

Alden grabs two other needles with practiced ease and steps behind her. She feels his hands against her shoulders, running along the joint where her wings meet her back. He inserts a needle at the base of each wing, injecting the liquid beneath her skin. She tries to stop him but she can barely move with the restraints and her magic roaring in her body. 

The moment her wings go numb she lashes out with her magic. Alden presses a hand against her throat. “I wouldn’t try that.” He says, his voice low and practically a hiss. “I don’t need you alive for what I’m doing.”

Dread settles deep into her bones and a sticky fear crawls up her spine. They may kill her. She could _die_. 

“The less you move, the easier it’ll be for both of us.” Alden says. She doesn’t move, fearing a needle or something worse digging into her throat.

Alden positions on hand on her back and the other presumably on her wing. He twists and pulls, tearing it right out of its socket.

The pain runs deep, flaring all the way down her arm. She bits her lip, letting only a whimper escape. It’s only when Alden picks up the knife does something shatter within Claire. “No!” She screams, her voice raw and pulled thin with tears. “You can’t do that!”

Alden doesn’t say anything. “No! No no no...no.” Her words cut into pathetic sobs that tear through her throat. Raymond stands there, watching.

Alden presses the knife into Claire’s flesh and everything goes white. Pain filters in, fractured and muted. Her breath comes out in muddled gasps and she feels like everything is too loud. 

Something thuds against the floor and she suspects it’s her wing. 

(She knows it’s her wing but she can’t bring herself to accept it. If she does, then this is all _real_.)

Alden and Raymond leave, twin sets of footsteps accompanying them. Claire tests her magic, feeling for her wings. She knows they aren’t there but she had to be _certain_. 

The connection between her wings is gone, broken threads fluttering in the void that used to contain her wings. It’s expansive and devours her in the inky darkness.

Her whole world shatters and all she can do is sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	12. broken down, broken trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian should’ve known better. No matter what he does, Alden’s always one step ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're back to Julian for a bit. If you can tell, he's one of my favorites. 
> 
> Although I feel that the quality of this chapter isn't my usual; I did change what I was writing halfway through.
> 
> But I still hope you enjoy. And if you like what's discussed at the end, No. 15 will be even more fun.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: involuntary drug use, mention of character death

Alden leans against his desk, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with an emotion that Julian can’t quite decipher. It’s an odd mix between intrigue and self-satisfaction. Julian stands across from him, trying to keep his posture straight but also trying to edge against the line of disrespect. If Alden recognizes this, he doesn’t say anything.

“Alden.” Julian forces his voice flat when he says the name, wanting nothing else than to let his discontent show through. “Why did you call me here?”

Alden watches him before speaking, his gaze sharp. “It’s about your most recent mission.”

“I’ve already reported on it.” Julian doesn’t let the satisfaction show on his face. If that was what Alden considered problematic, he wasn’t going to be prepared for what Julian had planned next. “It was an accident, a rookie’s mistake. I shouldn’t have let Abigail handle the first shot.”

Alden reaches over to his desk and grabs a thin packet of paper. “But I have something here that paints a very different story.” Alden flips through the pages, a grin sharpening on his face. He holds it out to Julian. “Here, give it a read. It may jog your memory.”

Julian grabs the packet, and skims through the page that Alden flipped to. It detailed the exact situation that occurred, not one that Julian instructed the rest of his members to fake. It wasn’t Abigail’s, she was too afraid of the consequences. It must’ve been Colton. Julian thought he was sufficiently threatened but it’s obvious he wasn’t.

Julian hands back the document. “This is interesting and all, but how do you know that it wasn’t falsified?” He keeps his expression innocently flat, letting a little shard of hurt in. “It goes against everything I’ve written.”

Alden picks up on the game that Julian’s playing, barely acknowledging it with a shift in his expression. “Do you think the report was my only proof?”

A knock echoes against the door before it opens. Julian tenses, magic curling inside of him, but only Ryan walks through in. The tension bleeds into confusion. “Ryan?”

Alden doesn’t even glance at Ryan, keeping his gaze trained on Julian. “Ryan, I’d like you to repeat your report.”

Ryan won’t look at Julian, keeping his eyes set at the wall before him. “The mission was a failure, but not due to an accident as Julian forced us to report.” Ryan’s voice is flat but the faint flicker of determination shines through. “He instructed Abigail to make the shot that resulted in the loss of the invaluable chemicals.”

Julian wrangles the bitter betray boiling within him to a bright, hot anger. “Alden, are you taking his word over mine?”

Alden grins, vicious and full of sharp edges. “Of course. He hasn’t lied to me before, why would he start now?”

“What are you talking about?” All the pieces are fitting together but Julian doesn’t want to see the picture. That would mean that he was gullible enough to trust a snitch. He looks back to Ryan. “Ryan, what’s going on?”

“Go ahead, telling him.” Alden says, sickly sweet enjoyment dripping off his voice. “There’s no need to hide it.”

Ryan won’t look at him, his voice pained. “I’m a spy, Julian.”

Julian should’ve known better than to trust any one in this place, that they were all as twisted as Alden. But he gave them the benefit of the doubt and trusted they only followed Alden out of necessity.

Because if he doesn’t do that, where would that put his father?

Julian resigns himself to this, forgoing asking for reasons. At least in front of Alden. He couldn’t give him the satisfaction of giving in. “So what now?”

“As you know, disrespect isn’t tolerated. But I think some time in the cells will help.” Alden gestures to Ryan with a hand. His smile is sickening. “You can take him down.”

Ryan tries to grab Julian’s arm but he steps back, reaching for his gun. Julian’s hand brushed empty air. Ryan latches onto Julian’s wrist with his falter and pulls him towards the door. 

Julian reaches into his magic and _pulls_. It snaps against him and his sword almost manifests in his grasp. But a needle in his neck stops him.

“Stop protesting.” Ryan’s voice is low, a whisper against Julian’s ear. “Or you’re not going to like the result.”

Julian dispels his sword just as Ryan presses down on the stopper. Julian can feel the suppressant in his skin, working sluggishly through his blood stream and dulling his connection with his magic. It’s not enough to make it disappear entirely, just enough to remind him what he can’t do. 

Julian glares at Alden but he lets Ryan cuff his wrists and drag him out of the room. They’re silent as they walk through the halls, their steps echoing against the wooden flooring. As the walk down sets of winding staircases, it changes to grey concrete. 

Ryan shoves Julian into the first cell, locking it as Julian picks himself up from the floor. Ryan stares at him and it’s the first time the entire night that he’s meeting Julian’s eyes. “Why did you do it?” Julian spits out the words, anger burning hot within them.

“It’s what I had to do.” Ryan’s voice is flat but it doesn’t hide the frustration simmering within it. 

Julian scrambles over to the bars. “You don’t have to do anything. There is so much more beyond what Alden has to offer.”

Ryan _laughs_ , bitter and condescending. “I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve lived your life in this little bubble, ignorant of any suffering.”

“You don’t get to tell me what suffering is.” Julian wraps his hands around the bars, the cuffs clanging against it. “Not until you’ve washed blood off your own hands.”

“What do you think Alden’s made me do?” Ryan hisses, slamming his hands into the bars, rattling them. Disgust settles thick in his voice. “Are you ignorant enough to think it stopped at being an informant?”

“If you hate that much, why are you still doing it?” 

“Don’t you think I already know that? I _can’t_ leave.” Ryan’s voice shakes with something desperate. 

“Why not?”

“Alden’s the only one that can _clone_ wings.” Ryan chokes on the words, his breath heaving in his chest. 

Julian’s stomach drops. He tightens his grip on the bars, trying to mask the shaking. “Don’t go there.” Julian’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“I have to.” Ryan straightens up, a deadly calm entering his voice. “But it’s clear you couldn’t understand that.”

“No.” Julian forces out, his words sticking in his throat. He can barely breathe past them. “You don’t want to get involved with that.”

“I’m past petty things like legality.” A condescending tilt weaves through Ryan’s voice. “But a little prince like you can’t even think past the law.”

Julian sucks in a breath, leaning to the cell bars. He doesn’t want to say it. It’ll make it true. “My uncle was the one who figured out how to clone wings.” His voice is small, unreasonably so. Ryan stops and turns to him, eyes wide. “With Alden and Cassidy. So don’t tell me what I do and don’t know.”

“Alden told me that he was the only one that could get my parent’s wings back.” Ryan’s voice shakes, distrust written clear in his expression. 

“He’s lied about a lot more than that.” Julian pushes away from the bars, electing to lean against the back wall. The chill of the concrete bleeds through the thin fabric of his shirt. “And, just so you know, Alden’s probably the one who took their wings in the first place. He took my father’s.”

Ryan bites his lips, hands clenching into shaking fists at his side. “I don’t believe you.”

Julian shrugs, his cuffs clattering against each other. “That doesn’t change a thing.”

Ryan narrows his eyes and turns away. He storms out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Julian releases the breath that he was holding, sinking to the floor as he does so. Something spindly cracks within him. 

Saying out loud really makes it true, doesn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	13. oxygen mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. Julian slipped and the water swallowed him up. Who knew drowning hurt this much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun to write and something I've been waiting to write since I started this AU. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warning: blood, burn mention, drowning, near drowning, hospitals, police

Julian’s arm aches in a way he’s never felt before, deep set and continuous. No matter what he does, pain flares along the jagged burn. The sleeve of his jacket is pressed against it by pure coincidence—he pulled it on without even thinking—and is the closest thing he has to a bandage. But whenever he shifts too quickly it tears from his burns. Blood bubbles up from the wounds, running down his arm and laced with the pain.

Now he sits still, sequestered between a few discarded boxes. He presses his hand against his sleeve, hoping to stop some of the bleeding. The salty smell of the sea settles over him. He hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten to it. The air holds a thick humidity, fog rolling over the docks. It rests deep within his lungs, shortening his breaths. 

He leans back against the wall and pulls out his gun. It along with half a dozen knives and a bag of lock picking equipment are all he has left. Alden stripped him bare and this was what he could find in his haste to escape. Not that it really matters. He has his gun.

The electric blue accents gleam in the muted light from the lamps nearby. It’s not the most practical color but something about it resonated within him. It’s all that he has left of his ~~father~~ uncle.

The quiet sound of footsteps jolts Julian out of his thoughts. He painstakingly drags himself up to a standing position, every moving sending a jolt of pain down his arm. He glances down one end of the alleyway he was camping in. The bright beam of a flashlight cuts across it and he hears the low murmur of voices. 

Julian sprints in the other direction just as the light lands on him. “Vineris!” Ian shouts, his voice drawn thin and edged with frustration. “Stop!”

Julian twists around and shakily aims his gun at Ian. He pulls the trigger a few times before ducking around the corner. Ian returns his fire, his own shots echoing through the otherwise silent dock. 

Julian runs through rows of stacked storage containers, Ian hot on his heels. He twists around when he can, firing shots and reloading when possible. His burn screams at him, the pain of his jacket ripping away from the skin is torturous. Blood runs down his arm, dripping off his hand and weakening his grip. He holds his arm to his chest as he runs, staining it.

He turns into a deadend, Ian’s steps echoing behind him. Julian’s gaze darts at the wall, trying to find something he can use. He spots a small ladder to the roof and sprints to it. He shoves his gun into its holster and jumps.

His grip slips and he lays hanging on one arm. It takes him a moment to reorient himself and start climbing and that’s all it takes for Ian to run into the alley. The second Ian spots him, he levels his gun at Julian.

Julian heaves himself over the edge of the roof and starts running. Ian abandons his shot in favor of continuing the chase. 

Julian jumps between the buildings, the landing sending jolts of burning pain through his arm. He alternates between glancing back and watching his jumps. 

Ian has his gun out before him and is firing, dropping the discarded clip in exchange for a new. Julian looks back, seeing the edge of the building and mentally times his jump. He looks around, reaches for his gun and jumps.

Nothing but empty air meets his feet. Julian looks forward to see the inky black ocean under the peeling fog. He has barely a moment to register what happened before he collides with the icy water. 

The shock combined with the stinging burn that overcomes his every thought has him draw in a breath. His mouth fills with salty water, burning his throat. He struggles to find the surface, his burned arm hanging limp. 

But the pain soon overtakes him and he blacks out.

——

Ian watches with detached interest as Vineris jumps off the ledge into the sea. He couldn’t believe that the man that they’ve spent months, if not years, trying to catch just jumped into the water despite the obvious injuries he sustained. Ian didn’t know where to be appalled or angry.

But when Vineris didn’t surface, the emotions twisting inside of him turned to fear. They could lose their only lead to Golden Dawn. Their only lead to Claire’s _killer_.

Ian drops his gun and strips off the vest and heavy belt he’s wearing. He runs and jumps into the water. 

It’s cold, shockingly so. The salt stings his eyes and it’s almost impossible to see anything below the surface of the water. But Ian draws in a breath and dives deeper.

Between the fractured light coming from the surface and the deep shadows from the depths, he almost misses Vineris. But Ian spots him sinking slowly, clearly unconscious. Ian wraps his arms around him and drags him to the surface.

Alarm runs through Ian when Vineris doesn’t wake after breaking the surface. Ian isn’t even certain if he’s _breathing_. An indescribable emotion encroaches in him, slowly devouring his every thought. It’s sticky and not quite like anything Ian’s felt before. He pushes it away. He doesn’t have the time to decipher that.

He drags Vineris out of the water, shoving him away from the edge. It takes him a moment after regaining his own breath to release that his own fears were correct. Vineris wasn’t breathing.

Ian crawls over to him and crouches over his chest. He rakes his brain for everything he was taught about CPR. It was the rescue breaths first then a minute of chest compressions. Hopefully by then Ashlyn will have found them and she can call 911.

Ian tilts Vineris’s head back, leaning in close and waiting to see if he starts breathing on his own. When he feels nothing, Ian pinches Vineris’s nose and presses his lips against his.

He gives the breaths, leaning back to start the chest compressions when Vineris starts coughing. Ian leans Vineris to the side, watching as he coughs and vomits water with a mix of blood. Ian holds tight onto him.

Ashlyn runs in, eyes wide and her hand resting on her gun. “Ian, what’s wrong?”

“Call 911.” Ian says, returning his gaze to Vineris. He sits laying on his side, shivering. Blood stains his jacket, a pale muted color from the water. “I’ll explain everything afterwards.”

Ashlyn nods and pulls out her phone, dialing the number and bringing it to her ear. She explains everything to the operator as Ian watcher Vineris. He continues to stare forward blankly, clutching his arm to his chest. 

Ashlyn approaches Ian a few moments later, her arms crossed over her chest. “The paramedics will be here in about five minutes.” She looks over to Vineris, something softening in her expression. “Is he alright?”

“He’s breathing and that’s all that matters.” Ian leans over him, reaching into his pockets. “Maybe we can get an ID.”

Vineris flinches away from his touch but does nothing else to stop Ian from pilfering his pockets. Ian finds a wallet and flips it open. A picture of Vineris greets him, with the name Julian Levine written across the top. Ashlyn peers over his shoulder. “Levine? Is that the same Levine as Lucien Levine?”

“I don’t know.” Ian scans the rest of the licence. Julian wasn’t even 23 yet. “Their ages match up. I didn’t even know Lucien had a son.” 

Ashlyn frowns. “Neither did I.”

Ian folds up the wallet and returns it to Julian’s pocket. When Julian doesn’t shift, Ian shakes him. “Hey Julian, we can’t have you falling asleep.”

Julian looks over to him, the most he’s moved since Ian’s pulled him out of the water. “What are you going to do, arrest me?”

Ian doesn’t dignify that a response, turning towards the sounds of sirens. Paramedics rush forward, carrying a stretcher between them. One looks over Julian while the other turns to look at Ian. “You gave him CPR?”

Ian nods. “He wasn’t breathing when I pulled him out of the water.”

“Alright, can you give me your guys’ names?” The paramedic asks. The other one checks Julian’s vitals, softly asking him questions.

“I’m Ian Riley and he’s Julian Levine.” Ian says.

Once the paramedic straps Julian into the stretch, the two wheel him over to the ambulance. Ian turns to Ashlyn. “I’m going with him to the hospital, can you finish up the arrest report?”

Ashlyn nods and Ian turns back to the ambulance. He jogs over, watching through the open back as they fix an oxygen mask over his face. When his gaze lands on Ian, something akin to relief flickers over it. 

Ian climbs into the ambulance and they take off.

——

Julian awakes surrounded by different monitors in a darkened hospital room and an oxygen canal resting on his face. His burn is bandaged in a thick swaddle of white gauze, blood barely peeking out of it. His thoughts are slow and mushy and he can barely puzzle out why he’s here. Cuffs clatter against the railing of a hospital bed as he moves his arm.

Everything comes back to him in bits and pieces, rushing together to make a semi-comprehensible picture. He was caught.

Well, more accurately he almost drowned and then he was caught. 

Julian looks over to the chairs beside him and realizes he’s not as alone as he thought. Ian sits there, leaning over on his hands. His eyes were narrowed and trained on Julian. Julian licked his lips and forced words out through the scratchiness in his throat. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t run away.” Ian says, his voice low and thick with exhaustion. His clothes are stiff with salt. “Knowing you, you’d escape even being bound to a bed.”

Julian looks up to the ceiling, watching the patterns the lights from the various monitors make. “You’re giving me too much credit.” 

Wait. Why did he say that?

Ian frowns, confusion resting on the edges of his expression. “You’re a lot more mellow than I thought.”

Julian grins, although it’s shaky and barely plastered on. “You really think I act like that all the time?”

Ian looks away, eyes narrowed. “No.”

The grin melts on Julian’s face and he draws in a breath. It rattles in his rest, his ribs aching. After the silence settles over them, Julian speaks. “You’re the one who saved me, aren’t you?”

Ian lowers his hands, straightening up. “Yes. I did.”

“Why?” Julian tilts his head to look over to Ian. 

Ian’s expression molds into something unrecognizable, layered with confusion and the faintest hints of shock if not anything else. “I couldn’t let you die in front of me.”

“Don’t you hate me?” The words fall from Julian’s lips before he can stop them, the question phrased non innocently but the intention far from it.

Ian breathes in, no longer meeting Julian’s eyes. “No, I don’t.”

“Why?” Julian asks again, unable to understand exactly what Ian’s getting at. Out of everyone, Ian should hate him the most. 

Ian swallows, leaning on his elbows and threading his fingers before him. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	14. branding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. Julian’s arm is burning and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've gotten to how Julian got his burn. This is another part that I've been waiting to write for and I'm excited to share it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: burns, torture, choking, blood

Pain splinters through Julian’s head as he awakes, the dull light’s sending it pounding and blurring his vision. He can barely make out a person standing across from him, their arms folded loosely over their chest, something held in one of their hands.

Julian blinks, tugging at the binding around his wrists. The rope digs into his skin, his jacket missing. The chill crawls up his spine, settling somewhere in his chest. His vision slowly sharpens and he takes in the warehouse he’s found himself in. It’s sparsely filled and large drapes are pinned over the windows. Only the occasional light on the ceiling bleeds down to the dark shadows below.

Alden stands before him, holding a gun in his hand. But it’s not only a gun, it’s Julian’s gun. The accents are unmistakable. Alden watches him with a thin grin, crooked and wickedly sharp. Julian raises his head, ignoring the growing ringing. “Alden.” Julian’s words start to slur together. “Why do you have my gun?”

Cruel enjoyment spark in Alden’s gaze. “I’m sure you already know this, but the gun is the least of your concerns.”

Julian digs his fingers into his palms, trying to regain some level of lucidity. “What do you want?” The question comes out steadier now and chilled with annoyance. 

Alden unfolds his arms, placing Julian’s gun on a nearby table. “Now that’s the all important question.” He steps towards Julian, placing his hands on the arms of the chair so he could lean over Julian. “What do I want?”

“You have to want something.” Julian looks up to meet Alden’s gaze. He gives him a grin, cheeky and condescending. “Or you wouldn’t have dragged me all the way here.”

“You raise good points.” Alden raises a hand, brushing his fingers against Julian’s throat. “But you’ve forgotten exactly who I am.”

Alden tightens grip, not the point of choking but enough to restrain Julian’s breathing to muted gasps. “I don’t think I could. Lucien’s told me a lot about you.”

Alden brings his other hand up to Julian's neck and starts squeezing. “I wouldn’t bring up Lucien, if you value your life.”

Julian sputters, yanking against the ropes and twisting against Alden’s grip. Black stars explode across his vision and his chest burns. He tries to drag in air but Alden won’t let go. Panic seizes him, his heart rate pounding over the ringing in his ears. He can’t breathe, he can’t—

Alden releases him and Julian leans over coughing. His throat burns and he vomits up bile. Julian looks over to Alden, eyes narrowed and thoughts scattered. 

Alden steps back, wiping off his hands. “Give it a day or two and those will start to look nice. Give Blaze a little motivation.”

“Don’t even think of going near Blaze.” Julian’s voice is scratchy in between the air he heaves into his lungs. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

“Who do you think you’re fooling with that bravo?” Alden walks over to the table, his hand hovering over the knives laid out. A needle and vial sit beside them. “You don’t kill people.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Julian couldn’t stop the bitter laughter from bubbling up. It’s broken and hollow. “I’ve killed before.”

Alden grabs one of the knives, a shorter one reminiscent of a pocket knife’s blade. “I hope you weren’t trying to scare me.” He inspects it, running a finger along the sharp edge. He frowns. “I’ve been told worse.”

“It’s a reminder.” Julian traces Alden’s movements, watching him hold his knife. He desperately wants to tear it out of his grasp. “Just in case you think of giving me a gun.”

Alden tosses the blade over to the table. His hands hover over the others laid out before returning to the gun. He grabs it. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t think of it.” Alden raises the gun and levels it at Julian’s head. “Now, don’t move.”

Fear grips Julian, tearing into his flesh and freezing his lungs. He can’t force a breath in, every muscle in his body tensing. 

Alden minutely shifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

The shot rings out and Julian almost thinks he's dead. But his hearing returns in staticy bursts. Blood runs down the side of his head, dripping down his chin. Alden puts down the gun but the sound of it clattering against the table is muted. “Now, Julian.” His voice is warped and Julian can barely understand what Alden’s saying. “Are you ready to answer some questions for me?”

Julian shakes his head, slowly and uncoordinated. “Fuck off.” It takes him a moment too long to realize that the disconnected words were his.

Alden frowns and narrows his eyes. He grabs the needle and extracts some of the liquid from the vial. Alden reaches for Julian’s elbow and he tries to twist away. But Alden grabs onto his arm and inserts the needle into his vein. “I think you need a moment to yourself. Afterwards, you might be more responsive.”

Alden pushes down on the stopper and Julian’s gone before he can fully process what Alden was doing.

——

Everything hurts when Julian comes to. His head rings from the shot and his wrists stings from the rope. Julian beadily opens his eyes, wincing against the light. It’s brighter this time, obstructing his view of anything beyond it. Julian’s gaze drifts over to his right arm and realizes what was wrong.

His arm was strapped against the armrest of the chair, a thin tapestry of wire woven around it. It traces all the way up to his shoulder, snaking beneath his shirt to his upper back. It's in the pattern of a lightning bolt and Julian would consider it intricately beautiful if it wasn’t for the circumstances. A metal plate presses against the lower part of his back.

Footsteps echo through the room and Julian forces his head up. Alden walks towards him, viscous excitement burning in his gaze. “Oh good, you’re awake. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

“Alden.” Julian can barely get the word out, his tongue thick in his mouth. “What’re you doing?”

“It’s some motivation.” Alden connects some wires to the metal against Julian’s wrist. “To get you talking.”

“I don’t even know what you want.” Julian couldn’t stop his head from lolling over, narrowing his eyes to focus them. The metal was cold against his skin.

“Anything about Golden Dawn, Brazen Flame, Lucien. I’m not particular.” Alden fiddles with the machinery.

“I thought you didn’t want to hear anything about Lucien.” Julian glances up to get a better look at what Alden was doing. He still couldn’t tell what the machine was for. 

“Not what you were saying before. Just anything else related to him being a member of any of the Thieves Guilds.” The machine turns on with a hum and Alden fiddles with the dials. The distinctive whine of electricity echoes through the room. 

Julian’s arm tingles with the faint edge of electricity. It stings but nothing unbearable. Alden watches with an expression that is blank with the expectation of cruel enjoyment resting on the edges. When Julain doesn't speak, Alden just presses something else on the machine and twists another dial.

The tingle turns into an excruciating pain that runs through the entirety of his arm. Julian grits his teeth together, his hand spasming out of his control. He’s stiff against the wood of his chair, his arm jolting involuntarily. Something clicks.

The electricity turns into a searing fire. Everywhere the metal touches is ignited and his mind goes blank. He thrashes against the binds, screaming. Nothing he does will stop it. He’s stuck here. He can’t do anything. He can’t do anything. He can’t—

He’s going to die here.

The pain spikes into a burning inferno and Julian passes out.

——

Julian’s arm is burning. That's the first thing he registers when he wakes up. His fingers are numb but every inch of his skin is alight in a pounding, burning pain. His arm trembles against the ropes and Julian can barely feel them against his skin.

The ropes are frayed and blackened. Every movement of his arm sends pain shooting through his body but the ropes give away. Julian lifts his arm, tears aching behind his eyes. He bites his lips and slowly moves his arm behind him.

It takes far too long for him to find the other set of ropes, tears running down his face. It hurts like nothing Julian’s experienced before, the pain seeping deeper than the surface of the skin. It pulses through his body like a phantom brushing it’s fingers against his bones.

He fumbles with ropes but eventually unties them. He slumps forward, drawing in a deep breath before working on untying the ropes around his ankles. His burned arm hangs limp against his side and he doesn’t dare move it more than he has to.

Once he’s unbound, he peels himself off the chair and staggers over to the table. A portion of his knives lay there, along with a measly amount of lock picking equipment. His gun, along with a decent amount of bullets, sits a little further off with his jacket. He painstakingly goes through the process of returning the knives to their sheathes and returning his gun to his holster. 

He pulls on his jacket, his burn screeching with pain and instantly sticking to the fabric. He didn’t want to do that, but he couldn’t walk around with his weaponry or the burn showing. That’ll get him a ticket to the hospital or the police station. Neither of which places he wanted to go to.

Julian steps away from the table, stumbles a bit before dragging himself over to the door. As soon as he gets back to Golden Dawn, Alden will have hell to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	15. science gone wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something’s gone wrong with Lucien’s magic. It was twisted and jagged and undeniably not his _own_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one where the world building comes in full force. At the end, I'll explain any terms that may not be self-explanatory. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: blood, vomit, self-harm

The lights buzz overhead, the few that were left on after hours. The harsh white light casts even harsher shadows that creep into the corners of the halls. Lucien’s steps echo through the hall, the muted clack of his boots against the off-white tile. He flips through the folder in his hand, mentally running through the calculations Cassidy left him earlier. They were close.

Lucien pushes through the double doors at the end of the hall, letting them slam behind him. He drops the folder onto the table and releases their most recent specimen from the suspension. The feathers are a pale green, appearing soft but brittle in his grasp. He gently removes one, collecting a small amount of the barbs in a dish. He grinds them into a fine dust before shaking it into a solution and setting it to vortex. 

While the cells are separating, Lucien removes a few more barbs and secures them on a slide. He places the specimen underneath the microscope and flips it to the strongest magnification. He gently shifts the slide and adjusts the focus until the image sharpens.

Even now, he can see the decay along the barbs. Magic flakes off with each passing second and the edges the sample are starting to peel. He steps back and sighs. They still couldn’t get the magic to stabilize within the clones. It starts to decay and unravel almost instantly and they’ve only had a sample last for a day before it completely disintegrates. 

Unfortunately, this one doesn’t look like it’ll last the night.

Lucien stops the vortex and removes the vial. He pours the sample into a salt solution and stirs in some detergent. He filters out some of the cellular debris and sets the sample in a rack. He opens the freezer and removes a small amount of ethanol. He pours it into the sample and gently stirs it. 

A thin white spool of DNA collects and he removes it, placing it in another solution. He starts the slow process of sequencing the DNA. He finds the small section he needs for comparison and waits for the computer to compute the output.

Once it’s completed, he opens the original DNA sequence and projects it on the board next to their sample. It’s close, painfully so. But even now, he can see the degradation of the E and M nitrogenous bases, places where they’ve either broken down or are completely missing. The rest of the bases will be soon to follow. 

He slams a fist into the table, rattling the computer equipment. His magic arcs off his skin. It was frustrating to be so close and still fail due to something they’ve been working on since the start. Magic in this state was inherently unstable and without the support of the human base, it degrades. 

Something twists inside of Lucien and hot tar coats his throat. He stumbles away from the table and vomits into the nearest trash can. His hands tremble as he clutches the rim of the can, his own magic turning his stomach. Sweat drips down his face and his vision lurches.

When Lucien can finally regain his bearing, he realizes what exactly he was retching. Magic, his magic, drips from his lips. It’s a tainted green, what once was a vibrant pure color is now flecked with a muted grey. He sits back and pulls on his magic.

It spasms and he almost vomits again. But he draws in a shaky breath and pools his magic in his palm. A small crystal forms, misshapen and nowhere near his usual precision. The green is threaded with tendrils of the dull grey. Normally his magic is vibrant and reflects magic like light, but now it’s muted and pale. 

He clenches his hand into a fist and the crystal shatters, the shards dissipating before they land on the ground. It’s too brittle. He prods his magic, testing how far this illness has spread. It was a lump resting against his lungs, intertwined within his magic. He hadn’t realized how much his magic has warped, the process so slow that he didn’t notice it. 

He drags himself to his feet and stumbles over to the laboratory equipment. His hip rams into the table but the pain’s muted. He shakily grabs a knife and tears into his skin. His blood runs down his arm, still a brilliant ruby red, and into the dish he hastily shoves beneath it. As soon as it’s filled, Lucien pulls down the sleeve of his lab coat and presses it against the wound. That’ll have to do for now. 

He separates the blood into three vials. He sets one on the vortex machine and starts it up while extracting blood from the others. He places one in a machine to measure his magic signature and the other in an EAS. While waiting for the results, he returns the cloned sample to the suspension. He didn’t have the time to completely analyse it. Despite his growing concerns ~~(fears)~~ about the wings, he couldn’t risk losing them. Alden and Cassidy would never let him hear the end of it. 

His chest aches as he summons the magic for the suspension and he doesn’t look at it for too long. He couldn't understand how it took him this long to realize something was _wrong_.

The EAS finishes first and he skims the report. It detected a value of 27.82, which wasn’t low by any means but significantly lower than his usual value of 36.26. The weight was an approximate but that shouldn’t account for this large of a discrepancy. He draws out another sample and runs it again, just be sure.

It spits out the same number. 

He records the value, he has to, he’s a scientist. He jots down the comparison and pulls up the value he got a few years ago to act as a basis. He needed to cover all his bases if he wanted to prove anything.

Just before the magic signature finished reading, he pulls the vial out of the vortex and repeated the same process as he before, extracting his own DNA and setting it to sequence. He opens the reading for his magic signature and brings up his from a few years ago. He projects them onto the board and looks between them. 

The main spikes and dips are the same but something minutely has changed. Some of the spikes are no longer quite as tall nor are the dips quite as deep. Some of the smaller spikes have warped into dips and visa versa. 

Shakily, he drags up the signature for the decayed magic, one that every sample of magic they’ve taken becomes. He finds the discrepancies and traces them with his eyes. 

He staggers into the table, a vial of his blood shaking and tipping over. The blood coats his fingers, sticky and nauseatingly warm. He barely suppresses the urge to vomit. 

His signature was slowly conforming to the decayed magic’s signature. He can feel it now, the slow twisting of magic becoming something he doesn’t recognize. Something that isn’t _his_. 

He turns to his computer as lines of DNA are spat out. He pulls the signature away, saving them because he can’t bring himself to do anything else. He drags up the small section that was deciphered and filters through the DNA he had decoded for himself at the start of this. They determined that his magic was too powerful ~~(unstable)~~ to be used at the start of this. 

Most of the bases were undamaged, aligning with the code he had before. But along the edges of the E and M bases, he can see where it’s starting to break down. The readings are only slightly less powerful than the previous readings but it’s enough to cause this twisting feeling that settles in his bones. 

He saves these as well. If he’s to report any of this, he’ll need to annotate the images to show how his magic has changed but he can’t even stand to look at them. 

He’s feeling lightheaded and he has no idea if it’s from the magic corruption or from the blood loss. He leans against the wall, sinking down the floor. He rests the heels of his palms against his eyes, digging his hands through his hair. Everything was piecing together into places he doesn’t want, fitting too well for him to have missed it. 

This is what he gets for playing with something he shouldn’t have. When you play with fire, you will get burned.

Lucien doesn’t know how long he sat there trying to reign in his breathing and not think about the withering mass twisted into his magic. But he jolts out of his thoughts by the sound of the door opening. He raises his head to watch Cassidy and Alden walk in, confusion dusting their expressions. Cassidy broaches the subject first. “Lucien, what’s going on?”

He can feel her gaze rake over him, taking in the dark brown stain on the sleeve of his lab coat and the way that he can barely keep himself sitting up straight. Lucien drags himself up from the floor, leaning heavily onto the table. He unsteadily walks around to the computer. “There’s something you need to see.” He couldn’t keep the urgency and desperation of his voice.

Alden glances around the lab, frowning at the mess of Lucien’s blood against the table. “What happened to the wings?”

“They’re in the suspension.” Lucien gestures in the vague direction of the samples, not willing to look at his own magic coating them. He opens the reports of his magic signatures and the one of the magic decay. “Look at this.”

Cassidy’s gaze scans over the images, her confusion only growing. “It’s only your magic signature against the one of the decay. I don’t know what you want me to see.”

“This one is my signature from three years ago.” Lucien uses the cursor to emphasize the points he’s trying to make. “This one I took a few hours ago. It’s subtle but the signature has changed.”

Alden looks at him with an expression thick with a strange form of pity mixed with a condescending edge. As if he thinks Lucien’s finally fallen off the edge of sanity. “Signatures can change over time.”

“Not like this.” Lucien’s hands are shaking, his magic trembling beneath his skin. “Spikes and dips don’t flip.” At receiving a twin set of blank looks, Lucien points at the magic decay. “It’s mirroring the decay. Magic signatures don’t change like that.”

Cassidy glances between the places Lucien gestured at, intrigue written over her face. But Alden's expression doesn’t shift from the doubt. “It could be a coincidence. You could be looking for a pattern where there isn’t one.”

Lucien drags the images away despite the yelp of protest from Cassidy. He opens the ones containing his DNA. Almost as an afterthought, he opens the one from the specimen he took last night. He circles the decay on the M and E bases. “You want to call this a coincidence?”

“Wait Lucien,” Cassidy glances away from the images, something akin to fear fluctuating in her voice. “Is that _your_ DNA?”

Lucien grips against the edge of the table, drawing in a shaking breath and willing the room to stop spinning. “Yes.” His voice is less steady than he would’ve liked.

“When did this start happening?” Alden steps up to the board, glancing between the three images.

“A while.” Lucien chokes out, suppressing the desire to sink down to his knees. “But I only realized it now.”

“This is unprecedented.” Cassidy steps up with Alden, studying the images with him. “Look at the level of the decay on this M base. It must be a source spot. The decay spread away from it.”

Alden runs his fingers along the M and E bases. “It only affects these bases. If left untreated, would it degrade to the level we’ve seen?”

“Wait.” A sinking feeling settles deep within Lucien’s chest. It devours the air he pushes in his lungs and he can’t get anything past it. They aren’t seeing what _he’s_ seeing. “This isn’t some natural illness.”

Cassidy turns around. “What do you mean? How else could this happen?”

“It’s from our exposure to magic decay.” Lucien swings a hand out wide to gesture at the lab. “We’ve been poisoning ourselves.”

“Why are you so certain about that?” Alden walks over to Lucien, giving him that condescendingly pitying smile. “You don’t see either of us almost keeling over like you are.”

“I don’t know.” Lucien’s voice sounds weak even to him, wavering with thick confusion that’s settling over him. “But it isn’t something we should test.”

Cassidy’s joined them. “You should rest, you’re not looking well. Afterwards we can figure out what we should do.” There’s a solemn edge to her voice and Lucien realizes she thinks he’s dying.

He can’t find an argument to say he isn’t. 

“No.” Lucien shakes his head, stepping back. He collides into the edge of the table. “We can’t let this go on any longer. You have your son and I—” The words choke in his throat. 

He can’t bring this home to Julian.

“We’re _not_ stopping.” Anger boils in Cassidy’s words, mixed with a raw desperation. “We're so close to figure it out.”

“Not if it’ll kill us!” Lucien shouts, his words sputtering into a coughing fit. Both of them watch him.

He pulls his hand away and it’s stained with the plasticky green that his magic’s been warped to. He holds it out for both of them to see. “Look at what this has done to me. I _can’t_ continue.”

“Nothing’s forcing you to.” Alden says, unable to keep his gaze from the bloody magic dripping off Lucien’s hand. “You can leave whenever you want.”

“You think I’d just leave you guys?” Lucien’s voice is low and scratchy. He swallows the bitter taste of magic against his throat. His stomach turns. “After learning you’d be destroying yourselves?”

Cassidy grabs a cloth and wipes off the magic from Lucien’s hands. She closes his fingers and holds his trembling hand in her steady grasp. “You’re overreacting. While all the data you gathered is fascinating, it’s only correlational. This could be a bad case of lisatheo. When was the last time you used your magic?”

Lucien tears his hand from Cassidy’s grip. “Lisatheo? Is that all you think this is? When have you seen someone with lisatheo cough up magic?”

“Magic?” Cassidy echoes. She glances between the rag and Lucien.

“Lisatheo can cause hallucinations.” Alden adds, his narrowed dangerously. “This could all be a misunderstanding.”

“This isn’t a hallucination.” Lucien tears the rag from Cassidy’s grasp and holds out to them. The bloody spots mock him. “The twisted magic within me is real.”

“What do you mean?” The thin layers of concern filter through Cassidy’s voice. 

“You don’t sense it?” The air is squeezed from Lucien’s lungs and he struggles to draw in a breath. The withering mass within him _burns _.__

__Cassidy shakes her head, an odd hesitation filling her expression. Alden watches him, a detached confusion resting in his gaze. He glances between the signature on the monitor and the DNA on the board. “Lucien, I think it’s time for you to go home.”_ _

__“No.” Lucien hates the clawing desperation that invades his voice. “I can’t leave.”_ _

__“Try to take some of the magic allievers.” Cassidy slowly removes the rag from his grip and places it on the table. “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, we can talk.”_ _

__Lucien shakes his head, tightening his grip against the table. The corner digs into his back. “You can’t force me out. This is my lab.”_ _

__Alden grabs onto Lucien’s arm and drags him to the door. Lucien can barely protest, pain shooting through where Alden touches him. “We can’t have you compromising our research.” Alden shoves Lucien out the door and Lucien stumbles into the wall to stay up right. “This isn’t permanent. You just need some time to get your head on straight.”_ _

__Alden shuts the door in front of Lucien, the sound echoing through the otherwise empty lab. Lucien sucks in a shuddering breath and picks himself up from the wall. He can’t let them continue this._ _

__He can’t let them slowly kill themselves like he has._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lisatheo_ refers to a condition of magic overabundance, or where there is too much magic in one's body. The magic ends up lashing out against the hosts body.
> 
> EAS stands for _Eris Atheo Serine_ or Blood Magic Level, essentially meaning amount of magic present in one's blood stream. Average falls at about 23.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	16. shoot the hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. Vineris pulled all of Ian’s strings. Ian’s forced to shoot the hostage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of posting this chapter, I'm halfway done with Whumptober! I didn't really expect to get this far and it's been a lot of fun. I've certainly fleshed out my character more doing this.
> 
> This chapter was a lot of fun to write. I love manipulative Julian.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: guns, police, character death mention

Ian strides onto the scene, blue and red lights echoing against the building. The building is small and unassuming, something that Ian wouldn’t have guessed to be the target of a robbery at first glance. Even hearing the address when he was first called over didn’t remind him of anything important. 

But at the sight of the building, Ian realized that they were dealing with a different magnitude of criminals. Most rob places for money, necessity or even to establish their territory and authority—there were these crime rings popping up through the state, most notably Golden Dawn, Brazen Flame, and Nightfall. They target flashy locations or wealthy estates, not records offices. 

This person wanted information and they knew exactly how to get it. Only that they weren’t skilled enough to slip in and out without the police being alerted. 

Ashlyn stands before the building, slightly behind the men with guns aimed at the door. Before her in a table with a phone and other monitoring equipment. A set of screens display the security cameras from inside the building. 

The employees are all sequestered in a corner of the building, huddled over with their wrists bound with rope. Occasionally one of them glances towards the cameras but they quickly look back with the words of their captor. He speaks something the cameras couldn’t pick up and gestures with his gun. While the recording was grainy and the colors slightly saturated, the bright blue accents of his gun and mask couldn’t be missed.

Ian wonders who exactly this man is. He’s never seen any criminal with this extravagant of an outfit. The mask was reminiscent of something seen in a masquerade ball.

“Have you established communication with him?” Ian approaches Ashlyn, looking over to the phone. A tech fiddles with some of the recording equipment.

Ashlyn shakes her head. “Nothing yet. He won’t respond to any of the calls.”

The man glances to the camera set above the hostages, a thin grin forming on his face. He says something to the hostages, leveling his gun at the one trying to stand. They shrink back and the man strides over to the phone. 

“Trace his call.” Ian tells the tech, his eyes not leaving the screen. 

The man leans against the counter. He punches the numbers into the number pad, drumming his fingers near the base as he brings the phone to his ear.

The phone on the table beside Ian and Ashlyn starts to ring. Ashlyn reaches for it, glancing up to Ian. He nods.

She picks it up and all they can hear is the staticky sound of the man’s breathing. On the security tapes, he glances up to a camera in the right corner.

“It’s about time you’ve come, Ian.” The man’s voice is a mix of a purr and the syrupy smoothness of something else. “I’ve been waiting.”

Ashlyn watches him, her hand poised over the unmute button. “Do you recognize him?”

Ian shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him before.” He gestures for Ashlyn to press the button. “But I’m willing to see what he wants.”

Ashlyn presses the button and nods. Ian steps up, keeping his eyes on the tapes. “Who are you?” Ian says, testing the waters. He needs to see how the man will react, beyond what the tapes offer them. Even the slight fluctuation in his voice can give him away.

The man laughs, bitter and mirthless. It sends a chill down Ian’s spine. “I guess I shouldn’t keep you in suspense any longer. Ashlyn must be dying to know. She’s been at it for a while.” He takes great pleasure in the fact that he knows who they are. He glances between the cameras, keeping the grin plastered in his face. His gaze settles on the one Ian’s looking at. “You guys can call me Vineris.”

Ian’s blood runs cold, settling in his chest in an icy mass. He keeps his voice neutral, almost flat. “Vineris.” The name burns in his mouth, curdling and nauseatingly bitter. “This is a little out of your wheelhouse, isn’t it?”

“Just because it doesn’t have one of my cards doesn’t mean I’m ill equipped.” The sharpness of Vineris’s grin oozes out of his words.

“What do you want?” Ian couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice, it molding into harsh curtness.

“I’m willing to speak to you.” Vineris glances to the hostages, head bouncing like he hasn’t already counted them. “Either of you, it doesn’t really matter.”

It does matter who goes in. Vineris only called when Ian was there. “I don’t know if we can do that.”

“I’ll release one of the hostages.” Vineris gestures with his gun at a hostage, a small girl no older than twelve. He removes the phone from his mouth and says something. The girl stands. “Do we have a deal?”

Ashlyn mutes the call. “I’ll go.”

“You’ve never done something like this.” Ian doesn’t like the grin on Vineris’s face, dark and volatile. He couldn’t send Ashlyn in there.

Ashlyn frowns, eyes narrowing. “He’s not going to shoot me just because I’m not you.”

“You don’t have to say it like that.” Ian’s voice grows cold, his hands clenching at his sides. “You know what happened—”

“ _I_ can handle myself.” Ashlyn grabs her gun from the table and shoves it into the holster on her hip. She pulls the vest on.

Ian digs his nails into his skin. “Alright. But you have to pull out the moment you see trouble. Don’t make it worse.”

Ashlyn presses her lips into a line, her eyes set on the door. “I won’t.”

Ashlyn walks around the table they have set up, relaying his instructions to the men in front of them. Ian unmutes the call. “Ashlyn will go in. But only after you release the hostage.”

Vineris glances to the cameras again and shrugs his shoulders. It’s incredibly arrogant. “No problem.” He hangs up the phone.

Vineris says something to the girl, waving his gun at her far too carelessly for Ian’s liking. But the girl stumbles over to the door and wrenches it open. 

Ian looks up. The girl runs out of the building, wide-eyed and bow-legged. Ashlyn is there, placing a hand on her shoulder and pointing towards the men. She says something and the girl nods, running over to the men. Someone brings her to the paramedics. They’ll have to question her, but it’s hopefully with her parents after this whole mess is resolved.

Ashlyn walks into the building and the doors slam shut behind her.

——

Ian watches the tapes while she’s talking to Vineris. She does everything as Ian instructed, keeping towards the doors and not antagonizing Vineris. He can’t tell if she’s making any headway with Vineris, he’s still relaxed and that too sharp grin is still on his face.

Vineris glances to the cameras, something sharp and arrogant in his gaze. He steps forward, his aim shifting. Ashlyn looks between the gun and Vineris, her hand hovering over the hand of her gun. Ian stops himself from reaching over to the phone. Calling could only serve to make things worse if he’s not careful. 

The screens shutter black. Something cracks inside Ian and he wrenches his gaze up. Nothing has changed, the guards still have their guns trained on the door. Ian brings the radio clipped to his belt up to his mouth and presses on the button. “Snipers, report.”

“No clear visual, sir.” One of them responded, their voice tinny over the radio.

“Shit.” Ian throws the radio on the table and dials Vineris’s number. It takes three rings before he pictures up. “What the hell was that?” Ian spats, pressing his voice into a chilled, razor sharp anger.

“I never said you could _watch_ me.” Vineris’s voice is smooth, edged with the thin, cocky arrogance of someone who knows they’re _winning_. He’s silent for a moment, the sound of a gun clicking echoing. The faint murmur of another voice that Ian can’t make out filters over. “I want to offer you a proposal of sorts.”

“It isn’t much of a proposal if I can’t say no, now is it?” Ian grips the table, trying to control his anger. He mutes the phone and grabs his radio. “I need sights, now.”

“I demand then, if that suits you better.” Vineris lets the words drip out, a saccharine politeness to them. Ian can imagine him leaning against the counter, that dangerous smile still on his face. “I want to see you. Come here in, I’d say, fifteen minutes? That should be long enough for you to get approval from your father.”

“And if I don’t?” Ian knows he’ll go. But he can’t let Vineris know how far he had Ian cornered.

The rustled sound of clothing crackles over the phone. “The first bullet I shot will go into your sister’s head.”

“I’ll come.” Ian says and he can’t wipe the frustration from his voice. “But I need to hear Ashlyn.”

It’s silent before Ashlyn tentatively speaks. “Ian? I’m sorry.”

“Ashlyn?” Ian’s breath catches in his throat, twisting and choking him. “Don’t worry, I’m coming.”

“Fifteen minutes, no later.” Vineris says before he hangs up the phone. 

It takes him ten minutes to suit up, including a call to Morgan, much to Ian’s annoyance. He had to inform his chief if he wanted to enter the building himself. Someone had to be prepared if Ian got himself captured as well. 

Ian pushes past the row of men and walks towards the door. It’s eerily quiet, his steps echoing against the concrete. He stops before the doors, removes his gun from his holster, and pushes the doors open. 

Vineris is still leaning against the counter, his flashy gun pressed against Ashlyn’s temple. Ashlyn bites her lip, posture stiff and expression tense. She glances between Ian and the gun in his hand.

“How nice of you to join us.” The arrogance in Vineris’s voice is even clearer in person, thick and suffocating. “I was worried that you wouldn’t make it.”

“You’ve forced my hand.” Ian glances to the hostages, hoping to convey in his expression that he’s just entertaining Vineris. All he needs is to get him to the window and the snipers will take care of the rest. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Vineris is still grinning, as if this is all just a game he’s playing. “Now that you’re here, I have a deal for you.” He gestures with his head to the group of hostages. “Shoot one of the hostages and I’ll let everyone but you go. We need to talk.”

“We can talk right now.” Ian tightens his grip on his gun, leveling it in the middle of Vineris’s mask. He can’t guarantee that he’ll kill Vineris before he pulls the trigger. “Because I’m not going to do that.”

“I think you misunderstood me.” Vineris’s voice dips with a grim excitement. “If you don’t shoot a hostage, I’ll kill everyone here.”

Something complicated twists in Ian’s chest. He really has no way out of here. Either he shots the hostages or Vineris will. “You couldn’t kill everyone. Not before I shot you.”

“I have one shot that’ll hit its mark.” Vineris’s grins, still that stupid grin that Ian wants to tear off. Ian can’t do this. He can’t lose Ashlyn right after he lost Claire.

Vineris sees something in Ian’s face because he gestures to one of the hostages. “You, c’mere.” He gestures to a blond, barely older than—

Ian can’t breathe.

Claire’s walking over to him. That can’t be possible. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s—

This isn’t Claire. Her face is too narrow, and her eyes aren’t the startling blue that mirrors Ian’s. 

Vineris gestures to the spot between Vineris and Ian. “Sit here.” Vineris’s lips part to reveal a row of white teeth and sharpen his grin. “Don’t move, it’ll make it easier for both of you.”

The woman crouches before Ian, shivering and her eyes screwed shut. Ian looks over to Vineris, his own hands trembling. He doesn’t say anything, his finger playing against the trigger. Ian steadies his hand and aims just off of the woman’s arm. He didn’t even know her name.

Ian pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	17. dirty secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaze confronts Lucien about what he’s learned from Golden Dawn’s records.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien and Blaze's relationship is one of my favorites. Lucien wants to get along with Blaze as he's Julian's brother and Blaze is willing to use Lucien for any means necessary. It's intricate and complex.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: none

Blaze presses his hand against the scanner, nodding to the guards as he passes. He can’t say it’s anything but morbid curiosity that leads to Golden Dawn’s records, looking up Lucien. There is something that Lucien’s hiding. It’s in the way he suppresses his magic, keeping it tucked close against his chest. There’s something there that he doesn’t want anyone to see. 

Blaze opens the door to the records room, flicking on the lights. They buzz, the artificial white light spilling down from them. He knew it wasn’t his place to investigate Lucien, but it was his place to know who his family interacted with. That was his new role as head of Golden Dawn. 

It doesn’t take him long to find Lucien’s file, tucked into a corner organized by a system he’s memorized a long time ago. The file’s thick and heavier than Blaze anticipated. He drags it out from the shelf, leaning against the wall to dig through rather than bring it to a table. He removes the top of the box and pulls out the first folder.

It contains only the basics: name, height, weight, wing length and wing color. A picture of Lucien sits there, his flat expression staring back at Blaze. Blaze flips to the next page, looking over the relations.

Once again, predictably normal. Raymond’s listed as his brother and two names that Blaze doesn’t recognize as their parents. Julian’s written there as his nephew and it ends with that. He never married. Blaze can’t fault him. 

In the corner, written in a neat strip of print, is an asterisk and a note. Blaze frowns as he reads it. Why would they need to specify that Lucien’s magic signature may not match his relatives? That shouldn’t be possible.

Blaze flips to the back of the folder, finding the section outlining Lucien’s magic signature. It looks normal enough, the main peaks and dips a little low but nothing out of the ordinary. Lined up next to it is a magic signature Blaze has never seen before. Something apprehensive stirs in his chest, cold and jagged.

Even the graph of the signature is unsettling. Who could possess one like that?

Blaze nearly drops the folder, his hands unsteady and weak. Magic decay? He’s heard of it but only in fleeting cases. It’s never stable enough to start warping a magic signature to mirror it. Unless—

Blaze tears through the folders, finding one labeled with the dates: 958 - 970. Lucien wouldn’t speak of what happened during those twelve years. Neither would his father. 

Dread pools in Blaze’s stomach as he skims the documents, pages and pages of the clinical scientific account of what Lucien had done. Of what would’ve killed him if he continued.

Lucien tried to clone wings. 

Bitter, spindly anger crawls up his throat, threatening to choke him. It mixes with his magic and all he can do is wrangle it under tentative control. Did Lucien really think he could get away with this?

That anyone would be accepting of it?

Blaze shoves the folders back into the box and returns the file to it’s spot on the shelf. He stands, his magic crackling beneath his skin. He needs to talk with Lucien.

——

Blaze lands before the grand doors of the Oligarchy, his steps echoing against the pale concrete. The small plaza is relatively empty, only a few people willing to venture up to the building. It rises from the edge of the mountain, purposely made to appear as if it was carved out of it.

He deactivates his wings with a crackle of his magic, catching the eye of anyone loitering around here. He straightens up, glancing over to the but paying them no mind. He doubts that they would be brave enough to challenge his presence after seeing his wings. 

He pushes the doors open, stepping into a spacious lobby. Magic flickers and sparks around him, people running and flying around the different rooms. He keeps his magic poised, just enough so people can taste it as they pass. It’ll only slow him down if he gets interrupted. 

The woman at the desk pressed against the wall speaks when he approaches, not tearing her gaze away from the computer. “How can I help you?”

Her magic sense must be particularly low if she couldn’t sense who he is. He flares it a bit more, leaning onto the edge of the desk. “I’m here to see Lucien.”

The woman stiffens, her hands stilling. She looks over to him, posture straight and eyes wide. “Blaze.” She swallows, glancing to the computer screen. “You have to make an appointment to talk with the Royal Scientist.”

“He’ll want to see me.” Blaze grins; it has too many teeth to be considered friendly. “Tell him there’s something important we need to discuss.”

The woman’s hand trembles as she reaches over to the phone. Blaze can’t say he’s particularly pleased with himself making her react like that. “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything.” She dials a number and brings the phone to her ear. Someone picks up but Blaze can’t discern what they’re saying. “Can you tell the Royal Scientist that someone’s here to talk with him?” Her gaze flickers to him. “His name is Blaze Galloway.”

The woman nods and hangs up the phone. Blaze leans on his elbows over her desk. “Will he come?”

“His receptionist will pass on the message. Whether or not he chooses to come will be up to him.” She turns back to her computer, poising her hands over the keyboard. “When I receive the call back, I’ll let you know.”

Blaze could pick up when she wanted him to leave. He steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll wait then.”

“There’s no need.” Blaze turns around to see Lucien walking towards him, a pristine white lab coat billowing out behind him. The remnants of his magic flickers around him. With the wide-eyed stares and gapes of those around him, he must’ve just deactivated his wings. “Blaze, what do you need?”

“I need to talk with you.” Blaze’s magic crackles beneath his skin with his agitation. 

Lucien frowns, eyes narrowing with an emotion that Blaze can’t decipher. “Alright, we’ll talk in my office.” Lucien activates his wings, and spreads them out to their full length. The feathers are a glossy black, crackling with his greenish magic.

Blaze does the same, finally able to release the restless magic simmering under his skin. He can feel the stares of those around them, heavy and hot on his back. Lucien jumps into the air and Blaze follows him. They enter one of the hallways against the ceiling, flying through twisting passages before Lucien stops in front of a simple door. He lands and deactivates his wings before he pushes the door open. Blaze follows him in, his wings disappearing as he draws his magic in.

The office is simple enough, a desk with an ornate glass partition set on top of it and a few seats. A hallway with a few doors juts out of the office, presumably Lucien’s laboratories. Lucien nods at the man sitting behind the desk but doesn’t say anything, walking over to one of the doors. He opens it and slips inside. Blaze follows him, shutting the door behind him.

Lucien leans against one of the lab tables, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Blaze glances around the lab. It’s relatively empty and gives nothing away about what Lucien’s researching. “You cloned wings.” 

A frown tugs on Lucien’s lips, lined with a bone-deep exhaustion. “I attempted to.”

The cavalier admittance twists the bitter disdain to a too hot anger. It burns in Blaze’s chest. “Why?” He can barely bite out the word. 

“Scientific curiosity.” An odd detachedness rests in Lucien’s voice, flattening it almost unnaturally. 

“You risked the consequences of magic decay for something as simple as curiosity?” Blaze’s voice wavers but he can’t decipher if it’s from the anger or confusion. “How could you make that kind of decision?”

“I thought I was on the edge of scientific discovery. There was nothing I wouldn’t do.” Lucien loosens his arms and Blaze swears they’re trembling. “Now, I know that was irrational.”

“But you still did it.” Blaze says, tightening his hands into fists at his sides. 

Lucien sighs, leaning back against one of his hands and regarding Blaze with a disinterested look. “What is your point of this? I can’t change the past.”

“You’re acting like you can get away with this.” Blaze's voice dips dangerously, flickering with an energy he can’t control. “I could report you the moment I leave the room. The whole Thervin is in the meeting hall across the building.”

Lucien smiles, a thin and emotionless thing. “But you’re not going to do that, are you?”

“You’re lucky Julian cares so much about you. If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t be entertaining you in a conversation.” Blaze’s voice is flat and sharpened.

Blaze turns to leave but Lucien’s voice stops him. “Who told you about cloning wings? Was it Reid?”

Blaze glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “My father did. Why?”

A wry smile flickers across Lucien’s face. “He had a similar conversation with me many years ago.”

Blaze is silent, numerous questions resting on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t even know that his father knew Lucien. That they were close enough for his father to spare Lucien. But the question Blaze ends up asking wasn’t the one he expected. “Were you successful?”

“No.” Lucien says, an odd note entering his voice. Blaze wouldn’t call it regretful, but it was something similar. Nostalgic maybe. “I made sure to stop it before they got that far.”

Blaze nods and leaves. He can still taste the disgustingly unfamiliar edge to Lucien’s magic, something unnatural that was woven in there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thervin_ directly means winged throne, and refers to the ruling body of Calethyia, which is an Oligarchy. Oligarhcy and Thervin can be used interchangeably.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	18. panic attack, phobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian’s fear of thunder is finally made known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is technically canon compliment; the circumstance could not occur but the characters reactions would occur the same if it were to happen in canon.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: panic attack, astraphobia

Ashlyn walks down the large street, thick humidity hanging heavy in the air. Claire walks beside her, with Julian a few steps behind them. Clouds paint the sky, billowing and stacked tall. From their elevation, the grey-blue water of the lake can be seen in the distance, the color darkened by the cloud cover.

“Were we due for rain?” Ashlyn asks, looking up to the and tenting a hand over her eyes. “Maybe we should’ve called it a day after confirming our reservations.”

Julian stops next to her, his hands shoved into his pockets. He glances between the sky and the water. “I don’t think so. Ellie would’ve said something.”

Claire strides past the two of them, turning around to face them with her hands on her hips. Her magic crackles in the air, merging the faint suspension of electricity already present. She looks up. “I hope we get some lightning. I can’t remember the last time I went storm dancing.” A grin tugs at her lips.

Ashlyn couldn’t stop the smile from forming on her face. There was nothing like darting between the lightning strikes, only seen by the residue of magic they leave. Or the sparks that arc across her skin when she almost brushes too close to one. “It has to be a few years ago.” Ashlyn turns to Julian. “Have you even gone storm dancing before?”

Julian drags his gaze back to her, his arms oddly stiff. His own magic flickers, a strangle mix between apprehension and excitement. “I don’t think I have. But I think I’ll pass. It doesn’t seem like my kind of thing.”

“How can it not be your kind of thing?” Claire asks, the disbelief and doubt coloring her words. “You’re the one who plays daredevil on your bike and carries a relic of a gun. This seems right up your alley.”

Julian licks his lips. He won’t look at either of them anymore. “I don’t know. It seems dangerous.”

“Like your one to talk about dangerous.” Ashlyn couldn’t keep the scoff out of her voice. “I’m pretty sure you considered jumping the bridge when it was drawn up.”

Julian frowns. “Fine.” His voice is drawn thin and Ashlyn swears it wavers. But it couldn’t. He’s a member of Golden Dawn, what could scare him? “I’ll try it.”

Claire grins, grabbing onto Julian’s wrist and dragging him forward. “Trust me, you’ll enjoy it.” She turns to Ashlyn, who keeps a few steps behind the two of them. “Do you think they’ll let us on the tower?”

Ashlyn shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.”

They were let on the tower. It’s smaller than anything Ashlyn’s been on but it’s a good four stories taller than any of the surrounding buildings. Ashlyn stands on the top, Claire and Julian beside her. Claire bounces on the balls of her feet, her wings already activated. Julian stands stiff, his eyes pressed in a narrow line. 

Dark clouds roll over the town, the faint sound of thunder settling over them. In the distance, the pale sparks of lightning flickers. A faint pattering of rain falls over them, damping her hair and pressing her clothes against her skin. She peels off her jacket, draping it over one of the many seats beside her. Claire ties her hair back in a short ponytail and Ashlyn considers doing the same. But there was something freeing about letting it fall down her shoulders. 

Julian’s still standing still, eyes trained on the faint shapes of the clouds outlined by the flashes. His jacket sticks to his skin. “You’ll want to take off your jacket.” Ashlyn says, gesturing to her jacket on the bench.

He whips over to her, his hair splattered across his forehead in messy curls. He blinks at her, his eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“It’s better to take it off. It’ll only weigh you down.” Ashlyn grins, trying to reassure him. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea for him to come if he’s this jumpy. “Don’t worry, no one will steal it.”

A flicker of something remnant of a smile dances across his face. “Alright. I’ll trust you.” He pulls off his jacket and drops it next to hers. Ashlyn quickly realizes this was the first time she’s seen him without it. A pale scar winds up his right arm in the spindly shape of a lightning bolt. 

“What happened?” Ashlyn couldn’t stop the words from spilling out her mouth. Guilt pools in her stomach, but it’s quickly drowned out by curiosity. If he’s never been storm dancing, how would he get a scar looking like a Lichtenberg figure?

Julian glances over to his arm, lifting it so he could get a better look at it. As if he forgot it was there. “I got too ambitious with my magic.” In the right light, it looks like electric blue energy shifts in the pale lines. Julian grins, all sharp in the wrong places.

Ashlyn drops the conversation. She looks over to the horizon. Lightning crashes to the ground, the rain falling even harder now. If they’re lucky, the storm will stick around for another twenty minutes. “You guys ready to go?”

Claire nods, spreading out her wings. The feathers glisten with the water. “I didn’t think you’d ever start.”

Ashlyn huff, turning over to Julian. She can see his magic shift in his scars. It’s eerie. “Julian?”

Julian activates his wings. Ashlyn can’t stop the awe that rises within her, no matter how many times she’s seen his wings. The black is even darker in the storm, the beads of water glowing with a pale blue magic. He shifts them, the water dripping off in thin rivulets. “Yeah.”

Ashlyn draws the magic to the surface on her skin and jumps off the tower. She activates her wings the moment she leaves the ground and shoots off into the sky. Claire and Julian catch up with her in no time. Claire flies around them in lazy loops before sliding up next to Julian. “Do you even know how to do this?”

“It can’t be that hard.” Julian’s voice is slightly strained, his gaze trained on the flicker of lightning before them. Ashlyn can taste the electric magic. “Just don’t get hit.”

Claire grins, almost manic. “Don’t get hit while getting as close as you can to the lightning. I doubt you’ll be able to beat me.”

“What if you get hit?” Julian asks the question offhandedly and Ashlyn is almost convinced he isn’t serious. But he glances at her and his gaze is flat and mirthless.

“I’ve never seen anyone get hit.” Ashlyn says. She can’t see Julian’s scar but the image still fills her mind. It would look a lot like that, she supposes. “Our natural magic should repel it.”

She’s felt the brush of a lightning bolt, the energy just before the strike forms. Everything slows at that moment and the world felt like it was on fire. She pulled her hand back in time, her magic protecting her from the damage. But she was more careful after that. 

Julian hums. “Of course. I was just curious.” A bitter undercut of uncertainty flickers in his voice. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was letting a grain of truth through. 

The rain pounds on her, weighing down on her wings. She glances over to Claire and Julian. “Remember, trust your magic sense.”

Claire rolls her eyes but nods. She takes off, the pearly white of her magic barely seen against the flashing of lightning. Julian hesitates. Ashlyn smiles at him, hoping that it’s reassuring. “Don’t worry. You can take it slow.”

She still doesn't believe that he’s never been storming dancing, his brother is Blaze and he’s a Levine, but it isn’t her place to counter him. If he wants to pretend that this was his first time storm dancing, that is his decision. 

Ashlyn pushes forward with her magic and brushes her fingers against the remnants of lightning bolts. It tingles through her arm and mingles with her magic. This never grew old.

——

The second he heard the sound of thunder rolling across the sky and his breath strangled him, Julian knew that he made a mistake. He should’ve come up with a better excuse than never having done storming dancing. Ashlyn could see right through him, he caught the way she was staring at his scar, and he’s still here drenched to the bone.

He, idiotically and impulsively, thought that he could handle it. It’s been years since he’s seen lightning, he must be over it by now. But he can barely contain the trembling threatening to overcome him and he’s clearly not over it.

But something stirs in his chest, an odd sort of longing. The feeling of brushing his fingers through the path of a lightning bolt just before it strikes is indescribable. His own magic hums in tune with the lightning and for a moment, he feels unstoppable. It’s that rush of power that he craves so bitterly. 

The echo of lightning coursing through him almost makes his vomit. 

He clenches his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He can do this. He has to do this.

He’s already gotten this far. 

He darts off into the sky, following Ashlyn and Claire as they dance through the sky. He tastes their magic mixed with the lightning, acidic and nauseating. He draws on his own magic and can see the echo of lighting bolts all around him. Just a handful of meters to the right of him sits the budding start of a lightning bolt. The magic unfurls, latching out onto anything that dares to come near it. He reaches his hand out and brushes against it. 

His magic fits against it, everything inside of him clicking into place. It was a hollow in his chest that he didn’t even know existed, a devouring void that needed to be filled. The ~~familiar~~ foreign magic burns within him from the inside out. And he can’t breathe. 

His breath chokes him, mixing with the magic. But he can’t pull his hand away. 

“Julian!” Ashlyn shouts, her voice rising over the static in his brain. Over and over the scene familiarity of this scene plays in his head. He’s been here before. “You need to move!”

He whips his hand back, jerkily and uncoordinated. Just a moment later, the lighting flashes up from the ground, the magic burning his skin. Everything’s alight in a way that’s painful and soothing. 

The thunder rains over him and he can’t breathe. His mind goes blank. He needs to leave. He needs to leave _now_. 

He drops from the sky in a crackled mixed of magic and fear. His heart pounds in his throat. In his head. Everywhere it shouldn’t be. This isn't right. He isn’t safe. He can’t be _here_.

But he doesn’t even know where here _is_.

He stumbles when he lands against the ground. His palms collide into a wall but he barely registers the pain of the brick scraping against his skin. His knees buckle and he barely stops his head from slamming against the concrete. He heaves into the wet puddles, everything in his body twisting against him.

Thunder cracks against the sky and tears prick in his eyes. He hates it, he hates it, _he hates it _—__

__He wants to _die _.___ _

____The thought tears through him, rendering his breath to stilted gasps. He doesn’t want to die but he’d rather die than spend another second in this storm. The thunder echoes around him and he no longer knows if it’s real or he’s only imaging it._ _ _ _

____“Hey Julian.” Ashlyn's voice filters over him, calm and quiet. He can barely hear her over the thunder. Her magic rests on the edges of his sense, stark against the echo of lightning around him. “I need you to breathe with me.”_ _ _ _

____Julian shakes his head. “I can’t do that.” He chokes out, his voice weak and shaking. He can’t believe that he’s like this. He should be better than this._ _ _ _

____But none of this stops the panic devouring him nor returns his breath to his lungs._ _ _ _

____“You can.” Ashlyn says. Something rests in her voice that he can’t dream of deciphering. She shifts. Hesitation coats her words. “Can I touch you?”_ _ _ _

____The idea of her magic against his skin sends his stomach rolling. He leans against the wall, his arms weak. “No.” His words can barely be heard over the thunder and the heavy sound of his silted breathing._ _ _ _

____Ashlyn must’ve heard him; she doesn’t come any closer. “I know it’s hard, but you have to breathe. This will pass.”_ _ _ _

____He knows it will, logically. But that part of his is so distant and fractured from who he is now, he can’t even consider it. But, he draws in a deep, shuddering breath and ignores how his chest burns._ _ _ _

____The storm moves on and the thunder quiets. His breathing evens and he can no longer hear the pounding of his heart in his ears. He drags himself into a sitting position, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”_ _ _ _

____The brush of hand against his knuckles startles him but he doesn’t pull away. He gives Ashlyn a small nod and she tightens her grip. He doesn't want to admit that it helps. Her magic is foreign and it doesn’t feel like the lightning coursing through his body. “For what?” Ashlyn’s voice is soft and mixed with concern._ _ _ _

____Julian’s relieved that there’s no pity. “I ruined it. The storm’s over already.”_ _ _ _

____Ashlyn’s thumb rubs against his. “You didn’t ruin anything. Your health is more important.” Something that he can’t understand flickers in her voice._ _ _ _

____Julian forces himself to open his eyes. She sits across from him, concern pressing into her expression. “I shouldn’t have gone in the first place. I know better.”_ _ _ _

____“You can’t predict a panic attack.” Ashlyn’s hand stills and a frown flicker in her face. “It isn’t something that can be scheduled.”_ _ _ _

____“You sure know a lot.” Julian rests his head against the wall. Heavy exhaustion muddles his thoughts and weights down on his limbs. “About this.”_ _ _ _

____Something akin to a smile flashes on her face but it’s quickly overtaken by the concern. “Claire had them when she was younger. After Asa left. I helped her through them.” She glances to the sky, looking at something Julian can’t bring himself to check. “Are you feeling better?”_ _ _ _

____Julian’s hands tremble and he knows that she can feel it. He swallows, the words jagged in his throat. “Can we stay a bit longer?”_ _ _ _

____“Of course.” Ashlyn says. “We can stay as long as you need.”_ _ _ _

____Julian drags his head over to see what she’s looking at. The dull blue of the sky slowly breaks out of the cloud cover. The sight of it instantly settles the unease in his chest. Eventually he’ll be able to pick up the pieces, but now all he needs is to breathe._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off my personal experience with phobias and panic attacks, and may not be universally applicable. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	19. mourning loved one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien stands before Alden’s grave. He might’ve been the one to kill him, but he still misses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very interesting piece to write. I've thought about the customs of death and the beliefs about afterlife in my universe before, but this is the first time I've written about it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: character death

The air is crisp and clear, the chill settling deep in Lucien’s lungs. They still ache, holding tight onto the remnants of the magic decay. It’s almost been twenty years and that research still follows him. Its influence is something he can’t shake, a ghost of a reminder brushing against his bones. 

Seeing Cassidy and Alden only served to bring everything back to the forefront of his mind.

It still lives within him, dulled and worn with age. His magic slowly absorbs it but nowhere near quick enough for him to see it gone. He can barely sense it now, his magic changing it as much as it changed his magic. 

The distinct feeling of wrongness no longer digs into him. His magic doesn’t feel like a fractured imitation of what it should be. These broken remains are all he knows. It’s been too long since he’s thought his magic wasn’t his own.

Sometimes, long into the darkness of the night and everything stills around him, where the fluctuation of his magic is a drop in the black glass of a still lake, he longs for the magic he no longer remembers. It’s an aching wound that’s festering with emotions he can’t decipher. They’re messy and often spill out of him in an array of confused and muddled colors. 

A ravenous void rests inside of him. It tears him apart, screaming for something he can’t offer. It leaves him empty and even more exhausted, a weariness that cannot be fixed by any means accessible to him settles deep under his skin. His magic curls around it, burning too hot to touch while so cold that it numbs him. 

He finds himself longing for a life that he never lived, a past that wouldn’t ever belong to him. A time where he loves the right people and can have a child that knows him for he truly is. But all he has is a mess of memories corrupted by petty things like nostalgia and regret. His own curiosity consumed him and he doesn’t know when it’ll spit him back out.

He doesn’t think it ever will.

He can’t help but wonder what exactly was the tipping point, when he crossed the line that he couldn’t come back from. The bitter, vicious part of him whispers that the darkness has always been inside of him, quiet and patiently waiting for the moment he slips. 

He can’t find the words to argue.

But there was one moment that he can divide his life with, even more than his decision to clone wings or his discovery of what magic decay truly does to a person. It seems inconsequential now, after all things considered, but to him over thirty years ago, it was his defining moment. He Challenged Morgan to a race for his freedom. 

Lucien knew from the moment that he learned exactly what his family name meant, he couldn’t take up the line. There was this insatiable curiosity gnawing inside of him and it wouldn’t be satisfied with sitting in a chair on the Thervin. 

But Morgan didn’t understand. He couldn’t, not with the way that he was raised. So Lucien challenged him to a Race. If Lucien won, he was able to leave, and if Morgan won, Lucien would join the Thervin.

Sometimes Lucien wonders what would’ve happened if Morgan had won. So much wouldn’t have happened, the cloning, the messed up thing that was his relationship with Alden. But there was so much that should happen that he doesn’t know if he could give up. There was the chance that Julian would never be born and Lucien couldn’t risk that. 

Julian’s the one thing he’s gotten right in his godforsaken life. 

He couldn’t risk being shipped off with some woman he didn’t love just like Morgan and have children that he could only love painfully. 

(That isn’t what he’s doing with Julian. It can’t be. It doesn't matter that Julian doesn’t even know that he’s his—)

None of this matters. Lucien can’t turn back time. He’s stuck here with the consequences of his mistakes finally catching up to him. He’s lost the only people that he could’ve loved and still chases after someone he missed having by only a few years.

Lucien forces himself to take the last steps forward. Alden’s grave sits before him, the pale grey a small mark against the sea of green grass around them. Part of him knows that Alden deserves to be buried like this, as far from the sky as possible.

But the desperate and still sickeningly in love part of him wishes that there were ashes for him to scatter over the sea. 

He doesn’t know what he believes about what comes after death and that only those spread in the sky will meet each other again in another life; it’s illogical to believe that the way one was buried affected where you would go in the afterlife. But he can’t stop the bone-deep fear that latches onto him. He wants to see Alden again.

Which is ironic since he’s the one that put him here in the first place.

It was Lucien that tucked the needle beneath his skin, injecting him with the highly volatile and experimental drug he was working on. It was Lucien that watched as Alden withered with uncontrollable magic and the manic bubbles of laughter. It was Lucien that narrowed his eyes and grinned as Alden finally stilled.

Lucien told him that he hated him but they both know it was far from the truth. Lucien wouldn’t have killed Alden in that way if he did.

Lucien loved Alden at one point and he can’t say that he no longer does.

It was a deep-set ache in his chest, this feeling. It’s a strange mix between desperate craving and jagged disgust. He hated how much he needed him. 

Lucien can still feel the chilled touch of Alden’s hand against his shoulder, his fingers moving until they find the curvature of his spine. His skin burns and he can’t rid his mind of the sickening feeling. It filled him with bitter desire and burning disdain.

He doesn’t know if he should call this love, but it was certainly something more than the fractured feelings he’s had for anyone else.

(Except for—)

Lucien runs a hand on the edge of the grave, the stone grainy and rough beneath his touch. He swallows, drawing in a breath. “Alden.” The name drops from his lips with the same familiar curve of longing. It echoes in the silence, dancing through the air.

Waves crash faintly against the cliff below and Lucien realizes how cruel it was to bury Alden here. He’s so close to the sky, forever trapped to see it but never reach it.

That’s if he’s even here at all.

“Alden.” Lucien tries again, his voice flatter and steadier. He hates it. “I doubt you wanted to see me but I have something I need to tell you.” He draws in a breath, the words he needs to say thick and coagulated in his throat. It feels wrong to say the words, even alone. “I’ve figured out how to clone wings.”

The silence is overbearing. It sits layered thick over him and he almost imagines what Alden would say to him. It would be something scalding but Lucien could pick out the fondness from the words.

“You probably already knew that.” Lucien finds himself continuing, unable to stop the words spilling out of him. They’re ugly and he can barely look at them. “It’s the only reason I can think of that would explain why you took Raymond and Julian. Unless—”

The words choke him and he finds himself sputtering. Alden couldn’t have done it just to see Lucien again. There were easier ways to contact him, there was a phone number that Lucien couldn’t forget shared between them. 

But Alden never could understand the simplicity of talking. He didn’t trust anyone unless he believed that he manipulated into complying. His trust was something so difficult to receive, Lucien isn’t even sure that he’s received it.

(The moment that Lucien walked into Alden’s cell, relief flickered on his face. Until his gaze landed on the needle in Lucien’s hand.)

None of this matters anymore. Alden’s dead. There’s no way for Lucien to know. No matter how much he wants to.

Lucien steps back from the grave, his hand feeling empty removed from the stone. He turns towards the sea, a faint salty spray of water splattering against his face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a feather.

It’s coated in a pale grey magic, just a few shades lighter than the feather itself. Alden’s magic pulses from within, dulled with age and so different from the twisted form that he had when he died.

Lucien holds it over the sea, his hand trembling. He desperately wants to keep this with him, holding it close and guarding it. But this is from a time he no longer remembers, when they were young and believed that they were immortal. 

It was from a promise that has been long since lost to wind.

Lucien draws his magic to his palm, the strength of it fracturing the fragile sheathe of magic over the feather. He releases it and the feather shatters in his grasp. He drops the shards. They float down to the sea, glimmering with the light from the sun and dancing in the slow breeze. 

Lucien’s voice can barely be heard over the pounding of the sea against the cliffside. “Dutel lyres phesyrus inerves lon batenes weneth athe.”

_May we fly together in our next life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	20. lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien doesn't know what's worse: him kneeling on the ground beneath Morgan or the fact that he even lost at all. 
> 
> An introspective look into what would've happened if Lucien lost his Challenge with Morgan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my longest, as of posting, piece into this series, sitting at something over 8,000 words. It gave me an opportunity to explore Lucien's character in a way that I haven't before, fleshing him out. Even thought it's technically an AU, a lot of Lucien's core characteristics can be scene here. I also draw a lot of parallels to what happens in canon. 
> 
> As always, please heed the warnings as this one gets a little more serious than my other pieces.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Implied sexual content, implied desire to rape, sex mention, discussion of sexuality

Lucien is eighteen and he stares up at Morgan, chest heaving and magic crackling dangerously beneath his skin. It’s mixed with the residue adrenaline coursing through his veins and the vicious frustration pooling in his stomach.

He lost. He Challenged Morgan to a Race and lost. 

Morgan stands across from him, his wings tucked against his back and sweat glimmering at his forehead. Strained concern is pressed into his expression but it’s quickly overtaken by relief. Lucien can barely contain his anger at the sight of it. 

He drags himself to his feet, unsteady and dizzier than he should be. It might be due to the fact that he can barely breathe. Morgan, smartly, doesn’t move to help. “Fine.” Lucien spat, the words jagged in his mouth and bitter against his tongue. “I’ll join you on the Thervin.”

Morgan swallows, his hands awkward shifting at his side. He wants to reach out but Lucien would sooner dislocate Morgan’s shoulder than let him touch him. “Lucien—” Morgan’s voice fluctuates with hesitation.

“What?” Lucien can’t, no, doesn't _want_ to stop the anger from oozing out. “Having second thoughts now? It’s a little late for that.”

“No.” Morgan draws out the word, his eyes narrowing. The blue turns in his irises, alight with a dangerous magic. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Lucien _grins_ , thin and too sharp. “It’s no longer your place to ask that.”

Lucien steps back and turns away. Morgan shouts to his back. “Lucien! You can’t just run away!”

Lucien glances back to Morgan. “I’m not _running_ away.” He hisses. How naive of him to believe that Morgan would _trust_ him. “I should finalize by position as soon as possible, shouldn’t I?”

Morgan frowns, the tendons in his throat tightening. “Lucien, you can’t—”

“Stop saying my name like that!” Lucien shouts, far too raw and vulnerable than he normally permits. “Like you actually care for me!”

“I do care for you.” Morgan’s voice is small and quiet, layered with uncertainty. “I care a lot for you.”

Lucien straightens up, refining his anger to a cold, sharp edge. “If you did, you wouldn’t have forced me to Challenge you in the first place.”

Lucien turns and walks away, ignoring anything that Morgan says afterwards. Something within him fractured then, a part of him he knows that he’ll never get back from the dying grass on that field.

——

Lucien is still eighteen and he stands idly in the outskirts of the semi-circle of people nowhere important enough to attend this ceremony. His clothes are stiff from disuse and a dark contrast to the sea of bright colors pressing against him. A thick cloak rests on his shoulder, the same dark color and embroidered with a vibrant green thread. He hates it. The mere idea of something being able to restrict his wings, no matter how false it may be, sickens him. He can’t lose his ability to fly.

After all, it’s the only thing left of him.

He had to tear out pieces of himself to fit in the narrow box that is his place in the Oligarchy. All he has left is the broken remains of what he used to be and the ravenous empty void inside of him. 

He’ll hold onto his flight until the day he dies.

Lucien jerks up at the clipped sound of steps against the pristine wood of the stage. Everyone falls silent as Morgan crosses the stage, stopping in the center. He’s dressed in stark whites and bright blues, a cape thicker and more ornate than Lucien’s draped over his shoulders. A thin golden crown sits in his hair; it is adorned with sapphire blue jewels of magic that match his eyes and stands out against the almost white color of his hair. 

A complicated mass of feelings settling in his chest and Lucien can’t hope to decipher them. He so desperately wants to hate Morgan, and he does, but part of him can’t. It’s the part that’s still foolishly hoping for something to come out of their relationship.

But he destroyed any chance at that the moment he uttered that Challenge.

Morgan’s father walks in shortly after him, his magic resting around him. He stops across from Morgan. Lucien can only see his back, but he can see the purposely flat expression on Morgan’s face. It doesn't hide the nerves. Not from Lucien.

Morgan gives him a small smile where their eyes meet, stiff and a bit too forced. Lucien looks away, fighting the frown on his face. It stings in a way that he can’t explain.

“Morgan Ayers.” Morgan’s father’s voice echoes through the silent room, still powerful despite the age worn nature of it. “I relinquish the Ayers throne to you. Do you accept your position?”

Morgan looks up to his father, glancing over to Lucien again. Lucien still won’t meet his gaze. “I accept the position as head of the Ayers family and as a Lord of the Thervin.”

Morgan’s father reaches over to the table and grasps the crystalline glass. A brilliant red liquid swirls within it, catching the light of the magic pulsing in the air. Blood used to be offered at this time, binding a person to a family through blood rather than marriage. Now it’s only a deep red wine.

Morgan takes the glass, tipping it back and swallowing the drink. If the alcohol burns, he doesn't let it show on his face. He sets the glass down on the table and crowd cheers.

It reverberates through the room and Lucien hides his wince. He’s never been one for these kinds of events in the first place and now that he’s coerced into attending, he likes it even less. His magic dances beneath his skin, matching his agitation. He’s lucky that it’s hidden by the noise of everyone else’s.

“Lord Morgan.” Braith’s voice silences the crowd. He steps out onto the stage, taking his place in the middle of the stage. He’s only been on the Oligarchy for a few years but he’s quickly taken his place at the head. 

A bitter, spiteful part of Lucien wonders if he could usurp him with a simple Race.

But he already knows how that ends, doesn’t he?

Braith smiles towards Morgan, just sharp enough so the cameras won’t pick up on the edge. “What is your first decree?”

Like Morgan could command anything without Braith’s approval. But the public eats this up, the idea that a new member of the Thervin makes their first order in front of the world.

Morgan swallows and looks over to Lucien rather than the cameras. Lucien forces himself to meet his gaze. “I want to make a recommendation.”

Something flickers in Braith’s expression, a thin thread of uncertainty and surprise. “Of course. Who is it?”

Morgan’s voice is steady and filled with something Lucien doesn’t want to acknowledge. “Lucien Levine.” The same fragile curl is still present when Morgan says Lucien’s name. 

Lucien steps out from the crowd, his steps loud in the heavy and still air. His cloak billows out beside him with his magic, spilling out and creating small atheos that dance around him. He grins, it far too pointed and mirthless to be acceptable. But he’s never been one to listen to these rules. 

Braith watches him with expertly hidden disbelief mixed with vicious disdain. They both know what his presence could mean for his position. A Levine hasn’t been in the Oligarchy for decades. “A Levine.” Braith’s voice curves around his name, something odd resting in it. He turns back to the assembly of people behind him. “Do you accept or deny Lord Morgan’s recommendation?”

The murmur of their voice filters over Lucien but the general consensus is acceptance. It settles awkwardly in his chest. If they denied it, this would be all over. 

Braith’s eyes narrow, sparking with an energy Lucien can’t explain. Lucien tries to meet it, letting haughty arrogance mask anything else he’s feeling. The flicker of smile tugs at Braith’s lips tells Lucien everything he needs to know. Braith latches onto every weakness someone has and Lucien has just shown him the deepest one.

Lucien would do anything to not join the Oligarchy.

“Lucien Levine.” Braith turns to Lucien, stepping before him. Satisfaction flares in his voice, tearing through Lucien. He can’t breathe. “Do you accept your position as a Lord of the Thervin?”

Lucien can barely force the words out and he can only mask the tremble in his voice from those who don’t matter. It should be his father doing this. “I accept my position as a Lord of Thervin.”

“Lord Lucien.” Braith drags him center stage, letting the cameras take in the full sight of him. Morgan’s stare burns against Lucien’s back. Braith doesn’t hide the twisted elation in his voice. “What is your first decree?”

Lucien looks into the blinding lights, straightening his shoulders and flattening his expression. He opens his mouth and speaks.

To this day, he still wonders if it was what Braith was expecting him to say.

——

Lucien is twenty-one and doesn't know how he’s still a member of the Oligarchy. Every day he fights against what Braith says and won’t meet Morgan’s glances from across the table. But Braith continues to vouch for him with the same arrogant smile, even when the rest of the Oligarchy threatened to banish him.

He knew, from that moment on, he could no longer spend another day in those buildings.

He takes a week of leave and runs like he promised Morgan he never would.

His travels take him to the Mevia border and he decides that it could be worse. The whole reason for him leaving was to get as far from the Oligarchy and Calethyia as possible.

He stops in a small dilapidated bar tucked in the corner of some no name town in the outskirts of Mevia. He holds a small glass of amber liquid, ice clinking softly within it. It can barely be heard over the ambiance of the bar. A show he’s never heard of plays on the TV, his eyes scanning over subtitles in a language he barely recognizes. 

The glass is cold against his lips but the liquid burns in his mouth. He’s never been one for alcohol, the taste itself was enough to dissuade him and the risk of being unable to control his behaviour was the deal breaker. 

But the idea of spending another moment alone with his thoughts was revolting.

Unfortunately, just as he suspected, alcohol does little to dull his senses. He assumes that it had something to his magic but he has no desire to investigate.

(When did he lose his curiosity? Was it when he tore everything apart to become a member of the Oligarchy? Or was it some time even earlier?)

Another person’s magic rests on the edge of his sense, just a brush off from what he’d sense in Calethyia. He jerks his head up and looks over between strands of his hair and narrowed eyes. A woman sits there, a too tight dress pressed against her figure and a cascade of pale blonde hair falling over her shoulders. Her eyes are a pale shade of hazel, flecked with shards of grey. She is beautiful, but not in the ways that matter to him. 

No woman could be beautiful in the way that matters to him.

He’s entertained the thought being gay, men are certainly more attractive than women, but he’s never had any desire to go any farther than brushing his lips against theirs. Even Morgan confessed his desire to have sex when he thought they were both too drunk to remember the next day. It was something he never understood.

But maybe it was something he could fix.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asks, the lilt of an accent he doesn’t recognize fliting in her voice.

Lucien gives her a grin, smoothing out the sharp edges into something desirable. “What gives me away?” He works his voice into something he doesn't recognize but she gives him a ditzy smile for his efforts.

“No one _here_ has magic quite like yours.” She leans closer and he draws his hand over hers. “And I don’t think I’ve heard of an accent quite as alluring as yours.”

“You can’t say that.” Lucien let’s his voice dip and brush his hand against her face to tuck some of the hair behind her ear. “When I’m listening to yours.”

“I’m Fleur.” She finishes the drink in her hand, letting the glass clatter against the counter. She holds his hand to her face, leaning into it.

“Lucien.” He has half a mind to give her a fake name but at this point he doesn’t care. He’s not planning on returning to that life any time soon.

“Well then, Lucien.” Fleur says his name like a purr. “Are you ready for another round of drinks?”

Lucien wraps his hand around Fleur’s waist, pressing his lips against the tip of her ear. “I’m thinking we could take this to a place a little more private.”

Fleur leans back, brushing her lips against his. “I could do that.” Her voice is quiet and low.

He drags her out of the bar, holding her upright and pretending to be far more drunk than he is. They barely make it back to his hotel, hanging off each other and dragging meaningless words out in the space between them. 

As soon as the door slams shut, Lucien shoves Fleur to the wall. He presses teeth against the junctions between her neck and shoulder, nipping. She groans, her voice barely a whisper. “Lucien, let’s take this to the bed.”

He releases her and follows her to the bed.

Afterwards he lays staring at the ceiling, a frown tugging at his lips. He still doesn’t understand the appeal. He did everything he thought he should and didn’t feel anything more than passing boredom. Even kissing her was unimpressive, more of him going through the motions than anything else.

He tried pretending that he enjoyed it, that he wanted more but it just made everything worse. The feeling burned within his chest, stifling and painful. He’d rather do anything else than have sex again. It was uncomfortable in a way that was nauseating, boring the point of irrelevance. 

He glances over to Fleur, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. He should feel something having a woman sleep next to him, even if it’s just a desire to hold her until morning. But there’s nothing there and he doubts that there will be anything there. 

And it doesn’t help that whenever he thinks of holding her, he thinks of Morgan. It’s feelings that he can’t explain and doesn’t want to dwell on. Logically, he understands what they mean, but he’s unable to understand them on any other grounds. 

How can he love the very man he hates?

How can he love someone without the desire to have sex with them?

It is something he doesn’t understand and doubts that he could. He’d rather distance himself from his emotions than decipher them, letting them sit and fester until they can’t be ignored. It’s better this way.

Less people get hurt this way.

Lucien sits up. He can’t stay here any longer. Whatever he’s trying here isn’t who he is. Whether or not he likes it, he’s a member of the Oligarchy. He has his country to serve and he has his brother, who’s just entering the world Lucien’s left behind.

He pulls on his clothes and leaves Fleur a note with a couple stacks of bills. He leaves before he can have any doubts.

Later, the doubts do come and he has no idea what they’re for.

——

Lucien is twenty-three and unable to focus on the meeting. It’s a strange mixture of boredom and deep-set longing he can’t explain. It doesn't help that Morgan sits across from him, having long since abandoned his attempts to catch Lucien’s gaze and instead stares at Braith.

It’s unfortunate that now’s the time Lucien wants to look at Morgan. He wants to see the awkward up turn of Morgan’s lips, the faint glimmer of magic that dances in fractured shards in his eyes. 

But Morgan makes a deliberate effort to not meet Lucien's gaze. He’s filled with a bitter sense of irony with the whole situation. 

It seems that Lucien’s always a little too late on the uptake and intricacies of social interaction.

Lucien watches Morgan the entirety of the meeting, ignoring Braith drone about something he should care about but doesn’t. It was Braith’s choice to keep Lucien on the Oligarchy, he must live with the consequences of it. 

(In all honesty, Lucien listens enough to understand the gist of what Braith is saying, on the off chance that Lucien is forced to speak. No one likes what he says and he usually gets to stay quiet.)

The moment the meeting finishes, Lucien latches onto Morgan's wrist. Morgan tries to twist away. “Lucien, what are—”

“We need to talk.” Lucien’s words are flat, eyes narrowed and jaw set tight. His skin burns with the contact. He craves more and wants to wash his hands until his skin is raw and peeling. 

Morgan glances over the room before returning back to Lucien, his eyes cold and the blue a harsh, bright color. His voice is low, barely above a murmur. “Fine. But not here.”

He twists Lucien’s grip on his wrist so he’s the one holding him. It doesn't make it feel any better. Morgan drags Lucien off through the jumbled mess of corridors and hallways, stopping in a secluded and empty room. He shoves Lucien in before closing the door behind them. 

Clouds of dust fill the room, thick from disuse. The particles catch the light and dance as they fall to the floor. Morgan leans against the wall, unnoticing or uncaring about the dust crawling up it, with his arms folded loosely over his chest. His are narrowed, only a thin shard of blue gleaming through. He’s silent as Lucien collects his thoughts.

Lucien lets the frustration that’s been bubbling within for years upon year rise to the surface, scalding his chest and throat in an array of emotions he’s not sure he wants to feel. “You’ve been ignoring me.” Lucien keeps his voice flat, phrasing it as a mere observation. 

“That’s ironic, coming from you.” Morgan's voice flickers between discontent and anger and something that Lucien doesn't want to decipher.

Something that he should want to decipher.

It’s the pale thread that draws Lucien in, that reveals there might be more to Morgan than what meets the eye. That there might be something there left feeling something for Lucien.

Lucien steps closer, letting a thin tongue of his magic flicker out. It stirs someone of the dust settled on the floor. “The least you could do is tell me why you won’t look at me in the meetings.”

“Like you did?” A half-grin flickers on Morgan’s face, a little too sharp to be pleasant and riding the border of sarcastic. 

“We both know why I wouldn’t look at you.” A strange knot of feelings rests in Lucien’s chest at their proximity and he knows exactly what it means. It takes everything to fight the heat threatening to rise to his face. “And you still haven’t answered the question.”

Morgan looks away, glancing over to the thin shafts of sun cutting through the blinds drawn over the window. “It’s something that doesn’t concern you.”

Lucien hates how much that tears through him, breaking apart whatever fragile control he had. “What can I do to make it my concern?” His voice is fragile and cracking and overall disappointing and revolting. Why can’t he have better control over himself?

“Lucien,” Morgan says his name with the same curl of familiarity that he had all those years ago. Lucien can barely stand it. “It’s a little too late for that.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” The words spill out of Lucien far too quickly, rushing together in desperation. “I messed up. I know that. We can still fix this.”

“No.” Morgan bits his lip and everything else falls away into a blur of too bright colors and too loud sounds. “There’s nothing to—”

Lucien pushes Morgan into the wall before he could finish speaking, running a hand along Morgan’s jaw. From here, Lucien can see the fractured shards of pale blue floating in his irises, a contrast to the stormy sapphire. Lucien presses his lips against Morgan’s.

He starts off soft and gentle, barely brushing his lips against Morgan’s. But when Morgan doesn't protest, he presses harder. The shape of his mouth fits better against Lucien’s than anyone else’s and Lucien slides right into place against his body. Morgan kisses him back, soft and hesitant, as if he’s afraid.

Lucien digs a hand into Morgan’s hair, the pale blond strands slipping through his finger. Lucien parts just for a second to draw in a breath and stare into Morgan’s eyes. He hopes that Morgan will draw Lucien in for another kiss. 

Morgan pushes him away and Lucien stumbles. His hip collides into a table and he can barely catch himself on it. Morgan’s hands tremble by his sides and he runs his tongue over his lips. “I’m engaged, Lucien.”

Lucien grips the table, his breath heaving in chest and his legs far too unsteady for his liking. “Since when?” 

The burning in his chest fades to a chilled emptiness. It hurts more than the scorching fire.

“About a month.” Morgan’s gaze darts between Lucien and the window and his hands, unable to let it rest in one place. “The wedding is early next year.”

Lucien swallows and knows he shouldn’t ask. But he deserves to know, doesn’t he? “Who is it?”

Morgan’s voice is low, aching with reluctance. “Lenna Collins.”

Oh. The disappointment sinks into his stomach and his blood goes icy. He doesn't know he could misread the situation this badly. To not only realize that Morgan’s engaged but that he’s engaged to a woman. Lucien shouldn’t have assumed that Morgan was gay. He’s never mentioned anything about gender and Lucien foolished hoped that it could be mutual.

He was clearly wrong.

Lucien straightens up, smoothing out his clothes and fixing his hair. “Congratulations, I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.” Lucien keeps his voice purposely flat and opens the door. One would think that Morgan would’ve kept the door open if he didn’t want anything to happen. “Don’t worry, I won’t bring it up again.” 

“Wait!” Morgan calls out, standing in the doorway. Lucien doesn’t turn to watch as he walks away. “Lucien, don’t go!”

The curl is still in his voice with Lucien’s name.

“Goodbye Morgan.” Lucians says. He hates the care that fills his voice when he says Morgan’s name.

Lucien leaves and doesn’t look back.

——

Lucien is twenty-six and he’s finally learned to live the emptiness carved into his chest. It was something that took him far too long, the crackled and jagged remains of his emotions tearing into his palms as he dulled the edges and smoothed them into something manageable. He can look Morgan in the eyes and no longer see the fractured remains of what could’ve been.

The kiss still burns on his lips, as sharp as that day almost three years ago. But he only thinks about it now when the nights are too long and sleep escapes his grasp. When the memories of the mistakes threaten to overtake him and he remembers exactly how broken he was. 

There was a reason, the bitter and angry part of him spats, that none one wanted to get close to him. A reason that was completely of his own doing.

And if it’s his fault that he’s left behind with the shattered remains of what used to be, it gives no one any reason to look any closer at him.

Lucien lands in the quiet plaza, his steps echoing against the faded stones. It’s been years since he’s been to Klytië, the town having aged since the last time he was there. But there’s a crackle of magic in the air, fueling the distinct feeling that he’s being watched.

He shrugs it off, it’s all he can do. He’s here to meet someone but he can’t remember who. As soon as he heard the location, Lucien tuned out Braith. Maybe if Morgan was the one to tell him, Lucien’s would’ve listened. But Morgan stayed silent at Braith’s orders, sitting and watching beside him. Morgan quickly rose the ranks, placing himself as second in command to Braith. But Lucien isn’t that concerned.

He knows exactly where he resides. He’s the one with the largest wings, the strongest magic. If he were to speak up, they’ll listen.

And Braith knows this. He regards Lucien with that carefully guarded gaze, letting him get away with fooling around so he doesn’t set his sights on Braith’s position. Because if he does, he’s not afraid to tear Braith down.

(That’s what you thought when you Challenged _Morgan_ , the small, treacherous part of him purrs, And look where that got you.)

Lucien strides down the emptying streets, the sun setting behind him. He stops in front of a small building, the name Dawnside Bakery plastered across the front. Lucien steps up the door and knocks, letting a flicker of his magic pulse out. That should get the door open, even though it’s past closing time. 

The door opens after a few seconds and Lucien _recognizes _the person on the other side of the door. “Reid?” The name spills past his lips before he can stop it, realizing it’s impolite to blurt it out.__

__Reid’s eyes widen and he opens the door further. “Lucien? Is that you?”_ _

__Lucien steps inside, taking in the small store front. A couple of tables with chairs upturned over them dot the front with rows of display cases lining one wall. The remains of today’s pastries rest in them. “It’s been a while.”_ _

__Reid shuts the door and guides Lucien to the back, grabbing a few pastries. “I haven’t seen you since…” Reid’s voice tapers off. He glances between Lucien and the door before them._ _

__It takes Lucien a moment too long to realize he’s talking about his recommendation to the Oligarchy. Lucien waves him off. “It’s fine. That’s old news.” He ignores the bitter edge in his voice._ _

__Reid opens the door, revealing a small courtyard. He stops and sits at a table and Lucien sits across from him. “So, what brings you down here?”_ _

__Lucien breaks his pastry apart, it appears to be some kind of danish, and tries some. It’s delicious, an air of sophistication in the favors used. “I have a bit of Thervin business.”_ _

__Reid frowns, eyes narrowing and his guard raising. Magic flickers, the barest hint against Lucien’s sense. He couldn’t help but respond in kind. “What does Braith want to know?” Reid didn’t hide the bite in his voice, a fragile edge bathed in something Lucien couldn’t understand._ _

__Lucien chooses his next words carefully. “He was wondering about the Galloways. They’ve all but disappeared in the last few years and he was concerned.”_ _

__Reid grins but it’s tight and thin. “It’s not concern, it’s subtle manipulation. You should understand, given your family.”_ _

__Lucien doesn’t deny it. “I’m only here to pass on the message. I’m not telling you how to react.”_ _

__Reid’s gaze is sticky and uncomfortable and full of something Lucien doesn’t want to understand. Concern wasn’t something Lucien deserved. “Why are you really here?” Reid asks, his voice flat with the thin fractured shards of doubt shining through. “It isn’t just to be a messenger boy.”_ _

__“It’s the truth.” Lucien threads his hands together to stop himself from digging his fingers into his palms. Reid was always too observant for his own good. “Not that you’ll believe me.”_ _

__“You may fool Morgan and all the other members of the Thervin, but you can’t fool me. This isn’t exactly your type of job.” Reid keeps his voice carefully neutral, as if he’s preventing any bias from affecting what Lucien decides to say. “You didn’t take this because you wanted to.”_ _

__“Are you implying that I wouldn’t want to see you again?” Lucien lets a shard of false hurt into his voice. He hopes that Reid’ll latch onto it. “Because that isn’t true.”_ _

__“Stop dodging the question.” Reid presses a spark of magic into his words, punctuating them enough to cut off Lucien’s attempts. It would’ve worked on anyone else, but Lucien sees magic like this every day._ _

__“I’m not dodging the questions. There really isn’t anything there.” Lucien leans back, loosening his hands and relaxing his voice. “It’s simple. I just do what Braith says and he leaves me alone.”_ _

__A flicker of a grin darts across Reid’s face and Lucien realizes that the words were pulled out of his month nonetheless. “So if you listen to Braith, he lets you act out as much as you want.” He doesn't frame it as a question because they both know the answer._ _

__“Don’t paraphrase my—”_ _

__“You’re not denying it.” Reid says it like a statement, but a little bit of satisfaction slips in._ _

__Lucien slumps back, not meeting Reid’s gaze. “Fine. It’s just like you said: if I listen, I don’t have to do any of the other obligations that come with being a member of the Thervin.”_ _

__Reid’s expression flickers between confusion and a smidge of concern. “If you’re not enjoying it, why don’t you leave?”_ _

__Lucien frowns. It’s complicated, way more complicated than something he can tell Reid now. “It’s not something—”_ _

__“Dada!” A young boy’s voice echoes through the clearing and Lucien’s head snaps up. A boy, barely a year old, is held in a woman’s arms. He holds out his arms, squirming and twisting in the woman’s grasp._ _

__“Blaze!” Reid stands up, holding his hands out to take the boy. He grabs Blaze, carrying him in his grasp. “What are you doing here?”_ _

__“Dada.” Blaze repeats, digging his hands into Reid’s shirt. Reid smiles at him, nothing other than happiness present in his expression._ _

__Something twists inside of Lucien’s chest, spindly and cracking. “Reid, who’s that?” He’s barely able to keep his voice steady._ _

__Reid turns Blaze to face Lucien. Blaze peers at Lucien with large, grey eyes, barely blinking. “Lucien, this is Blaze.” Reid raises up the boy. “And this is Celestine, my wife.” He gestures to the woman beside him._ _

__Celestine smiles, giving Lucien a small wave. A distinct feeling settles in Lucien’s chest. This woman’s dangerous. A hunger in her gaze gives her away, this underlying desire for something more than what she has. “It’s nice to meet you, Lucien.” Her voice is pleasant and she expertly hides the edge._ _

__“Likewise.” Lucien responses in kind, giving her a small smile._ _

__“Here Lucien,” Reid holds out Blaze with an open grin, oblivious or uncaring about the underlying exchange between Celestine and Lucien. “Hold Blaze.”_ _

__Lucien gingerly grabs Blaze, holding him close to his chest. The pulse of Blaze’s magic echoes like a heartbeat in Lucien’s chest, the thready, flickering magic of someone just discovering theirs._ _

__He finds himself blinking away the tears threatening to form in his eyes. He can’t even figure out why._ _

__(The cruel part of him grins and speaks: it’s just that you don’t want to _acknowledge_ it.)_ _

__

__——_ _

__

__Lucien is twenty-eight and unable to tear his gaze from the woman draped on Raymond’s arms. She is familiar in a way that’s unsettling, that dangerous glint in her eyes unmistakable even from across the room._ _

__She catches his gaze, giving him a small, thin grin before turning to Raymond. She whispers something and presses her lips to his cheek before extracting herself from his arms._ _

__Lucien levels her with an unimpressed look as she strides over, her bright red dress swaying with her steps. “Celestine.”_ _

__She grins. “Lucien, I didn’t think I’d see you here.” Something turns in her gaze, darkening the pale grey into something less pleasant._ _

__“Considering that Raymond’s my brother, you should be less surprised.” Lucien keeps his voice carefully flat, with only a thin shard of disbelief._ _

__Celestine frowns, narrowing her eyes. Her guise of pleasantness melts away, leaving behind the careful poised grace of nobility. “This isn’t going to be a friendly conversation, is it?” She grabs onto Lucien’s wrist, fingers digging into his skin. “C’mon, this isn’t a conversation we should have here.”_ _

__The ‘there are people that shouldn’t hear listening in’ part was left unsaid._ _

__Lucien lets her guide him away from the event, giving anyone who looks too long a well-placed glare. That, coupled with a thin spark of his magic, was enough to keep even the most reckless away._ _

__He was lucky that what Celestine said to Raymond was enough to keep him from looking this way. This wasn’t something he wanted to explain. He isn’t dense enough to not know what this looks like._ _

__Celestine brings him to a small garden on the property, rows upon rows of brightly colored snapdragons, pale chrysanthemums, and deeply colored hyacinths. She sits on an age-worn bench, the metal dulled and vines peeking through the gaps in the engraving. Small blue flowers adorn it and Lucien carefully brushes them away to sit._ _

__“So,” Celestine starts, her voice pitched innocently and low. “Care to tell me why you’ve been glaring at me for the entirety of the reception?”_ _

__“Do you think anyone could miss the way you’ve been hanging off my brother?” Lucien gently fiddles with one of the vines, crushing the fragile petals between the pads of his fingers._ _

__Celestine huffs, a sharp grin pressing into her lips. “Are you jealous?” Enjoyment drips off her words._ _

__Lucien looks over to her, letting his annoyance bleed through. “You’re married.”_ _

__She laughs, bitter and mocking. “Naivety doesn’t suit you, Lucien.” She runs her hand over his knuckles, a greedy hunger in her eyes._ _

__“Perhaps.” Lucien stops himself from pulling away, no matter how much it makes his stomach twist. The touch _burns_. “But it still doesn’t change the fact that you _are_ married.”_ _

__Celestine drags her hand back so just the tips of their fingers touch. Disappointment dusts her expression. “It’s all political. Everyone knows that.”_ _

__“Then why are you here, Celestine?” A thin flicker of dark, dangerous anger tears through his voice. “Be careful with your next words because if it’s what I think it is, this conversation will be the least of your worries.”_ _

__Celestine swallows but she doesn’t remove her hand. The waver of fear is barely evident in her voice. “I don’t doubt that you know why I’m here. But I’m willing to make an adjustment to my methods.”_ _

__“So you won’t manipulate my brother to suit your own pleasures?” Lucien grabs her hand, tearing up vines from the bench as he tightens his grip. A small burst of magic dances across his palm._ _

__She flinches but doesn’t pull away. “I want a child. A powerful child. I was using Raymond to get closer to you, but I can skip all that if you agree.”_ _

__“And how were you planning on doing that?” Lucien stamps down on the anger boiling within his chest, it burning in his throat. He can’t lose control. Not now, not with Raymond’s happiness on the line. “If you know anything about me, it’s that I’m not easy.”_ _

__Celestine reaches into her purse with one hand. It trembles. She removes a small vial, the glass exterior slightly translucent. “It’s a specialized suppressant. It stops your magic and makes you susceptible to suggestion.”_ _

__Lucien digs his nails into her wrist, letting magic arc across her skin. She whimpers, her hand spasming. She drops the vial, it clattering to the ground. A thin crack runs along the glass and the liquid seeps out of it. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Most of this stuff doesn’t work on me.” Lucien crushes the vial beneath his shoe, the glass shattering and the drug spilling out over the bricks. “Now, you’re going to do exactly as I say.”_ _

__“O-Okay.” Celestine swallows, her hands shaking in his grasp. She won’t meet his gaze._ _

__“I’ll give you the child you want. Afterwards, you're going to pretend that you love Raymond and that this child is his. When Reid inevitably finds out, you are to say nothing. Let him call me. I’ll handle it. Although I can’t say you’ll come out unscathed._ _

__“As soon as the child is born, you are to relinquish it to Raymond and return to Reid. I might let you see them if you follow my exact orders. And if you don’t, well,” Lucien grins, all teeth and sharp edges. “I’ll leave that up to your imagination.”_ _

__Celestine won’t look at him, her gaze solely on the shattered remains of the vial. Lucien grabs onto her chin and forces her gaze forward. Fear is bright in her eyes and she’s forcing back tears. “Do you understand?”_ _

__“I do.” Celestine chokes out, thick with tears and the fragile remains of her dignity._ _

__Lucien releases her, standing. He brushes out any wrinkles that might’ve formed and turns to face Celestine once more. “And don’t speak of this conversation to anyone. If Raymond asks, I was just vetting you, so to speak. You were annoyed but went with it because your love for him is real.” Lucien steps back._ _

__“Where are you going?” Celestine’s voice is stronger, although she flinches when Lucien glances back. “Isn’t it suspicious that you’re not here with me?”_ _

__Lucien smiles, mirthless and flat. “I’m not one for parties like this. It’s not unusual for me to leave early. You would know that if you properly did your research, I don’t exactly try to hide it.”_ _

__He steps out from the covering and activates his wings. He jumps into the air and takes off in the vague direction of his apartment. This should sicken him, the manipulation and psychological torture he just enacted, but it doesn’t._ _

__If anything, he feels satisfied. Like he’s been lost and finally found the overgrown and disused path._ _

__

__Nine months later, on a cold, crisp November morning, long before the sun was set to rise, his son is born. Even from the corner of the hospital room, Lucien can feel the distinctive imprint of magic in the child. He is going to be powerful._ _

__He’s going to be undeniably Lucien’s but he’ll never know._ _

__Celestine looks at him with something akin to pity mixed with an undercut of righteous anger._ _

__It was Lucien’s decision that forbade either of them from seeing Julian as their son after all.__

__——_ _

_  
_Lucien is thirty and a deep weight settles into his bones. He’s always had this distinct sense that he wasn’t where he wanted to be, that what he was doing isn’t what he should be doing. He’s accepted it, he could do nothing else, and painfully moved on. He no longer thinks of what ifs and sprawling equations that would take days for him to decipher._  
_  


__He picks through the work thrown at him, ignores Morgan, and spends the rest of the time with his son that doesn’t even know that he’s his father._ _

__But, watching the broadcast on the television in the center of the table, something shifts in Lucien. The feelings that he’s pushed away and forbade come rushing up, tainting his every thought. They burn in a way that he’ never felt before, a feeling that he’s missed out._ _

__That he should be up there._ _

__Two scientists stand out on a stage, their research displayed out on a PowerPoint behind them. Long, complex equations and formulas and graphs are shown, accompanied with disjointed explanations from both of them. The woman, Cassidy, explains some of the equations while the man, Alden, elaborates on the procedure._ _

__“—there was difficulty in stabilizing the magic, without a main host magic degrades rather quickly.” Alden’s voice drones out from the television. He gestures to the peaks and dips from DNA analysis. “It starts with the E and M bases but it quickly over takes the rest of the bases in the sample.”_ _

__“Lucien.” Braith places a hand on Lucien’s shoulders, jolting Lucien out of his thoughts. “Can you figure out what they’re getting at?”_ _

__Lucien licks his lips, ignoring how everything that they’re saying fits into place in his head, like he was the one to discover it along with them. “They’re describing the process of magic decay in their attempts to clone wings.”_ _

__“Clone wings?” Morgan echoes, the disbelief evident in his voice. “Are you certain?”_ _

__Distantly, Lucien realizes that he should be disgusted as well. He isn’t. “They’re not talking about cloning wings specifically, they’re talking about cloning living material and cloning magic. But I doubt that they’d try like this for anything other than cloning wings.” Lucien looks over to Braith. “Or we would’ve heard about it before now.”_ _

__Braith narrows his eyes, jaw clenched and hands pressed against the table. “We have to cut this off before they reveal their discovery. Lucien,” Braith says his name like a warning, carefully guarded and volatile. “Do you know where they’re stationed?”_ _

__Braith thinks Lucien’s in on this. He isn’t but he can’t stop the distinct feeling that he should be. “I can try to find it.”_ _

__It won’t be trying, Lucien knows exactly where it is and he has no idea why._ _

__Braith presses his lips together and the barest flicker of magic escapes his fragile control. Bitter satisfaction bubbles up with the fact that it was _Lucien_ to break his composure. “Go.” _ _

__The simple word echoes through the room._ _

__Lucien stands and activates his wings with a broad spark of his magic. He lets it settle over the table before he jumps into the air and takes off._ _

__It takes him less than an hour to reach the laboratory, familiar in a way that’s aching and haunting and unfamiliar in a way that’s burning. He lands before the doors to a large auditorium and shoves them open._ _

__They slam against the wall, startling the two scientists on the stage. They look over to him, pulling their magic around them._ _

__There’s something _wrong_ with their magic. Lucien can barely detect it, the writhing mass of decay that rests in between their lungs. He wonders if that’s the price for investigating something that you shouldn’t._ _

__He strides over to the stage, climbing the stairs to the side and approaching Alden and Cassidy. He doesn’t glance to the camera that is certainly still recording this._ _

__“Lord Lucien.” Alden says his name with disdain, spitting more than speaking it. “What brings you here?”_ _

__“Turn off the cameras.” Lucien’s voice is flat, punctuated by the arced crackle of his magic._ _

__“Why?” Cassidy says, her knuckles whitening against the clipboard in her hands. “What gives you the right to stop us from sharing our research?”_ _

__“We’re not going to turn off the cameras.” Alden steps forward, that sickening magic dancing against the surface of his skin. How could he _survive_ like that? “Whatever you want to tell us can be told to the entire country.”_ _

__“Turn them off or I’ll do it for you.” Lucien grins, patronizing and saccharine. “I doubt either of you want to see how my magic will react with your samples.”_ _

__Alden frowns, brows knitting and the muscles in his throat straining as he works his jaw. “Turn off the camera.”_ _

__“Wait Alden! We can’t do that!” Cassidy latches onto his arm. “If we turn them off, this is it.”_ _

__“We have to.” Alden forces out the words, as if defeat isn’t something he’s familiar with. A distinct feeling settles in Lucien's chest. At one point, he might’ve been the same. “The specimen is too fragile to be exposed to his magic.”_ _

__This wouldn’t be the first Lucien’s been told his magic was too unstable. It was unruly, even for him._ _

__The camera gets turned off and Lucien against the table, his hands crossed over his chest. “Why did you clone wings?”_ _

__Walls rush up on both their expressions, turning them bitter and pulled tight. Cassidy tightens one of her hands into a fist while Alden shoves his into his pockets. Alden speaks first, the words carefully chosen and silky smooth. “A scientific curiosity. We were told we couldn’t, so we had to try it.” A bite enters his voice, jagged and barbed. “Not that you’d understand. Politics aren’t the same.”_ _

__Part of Lucien _screams_. It’s the part that he cut away and sequestered all those years ago to fit in the perfect little box that the Oligarchy wanted him in. It started slinking out of it’s box the moment Lucien laid eyes on the television. Now it’s bursting out, latching onto anything it can wrap itself around._ _

__It burns, devouring him in something he doesn't even remember. It’s acidic and poisonous._ _

__He wants more._ _

__“I understand more than you think.” Lucien gestures to the slides up on the screen and the samples laid out the table. “I figured out what you were doing from the moment you started the broadcast.”_ _

__Cassidy laughs, a bark-like thing. “You want me to believe that you figured out we’re cloning wings just from the graphs we showed at the start. You, the Oligarchy’s little misfit.”_ _

__“I’ve figured out more than just that.” Lucien couldn’t stop the satisfaction and _excitement_ from leaking into his voice. “I’ve figured out how you clone magic, stabilize it, and what decay does to living magic. All just from watching you and your presentation.”_ _

__Confusion flickers across both their expressions, although Alden contains his better. “What do you mean?” Cassidy asks, the confusion evident in her voice. “About what you said about the magic decay.”_ _

__“You don’t know?” Lucien lowers his hands from his chest, flipping through the pages on the table. They don’t stop him. “You can’t sense it?”_ _

__“Sense what?” Alden’s posture is stiff. Magic flickers, an echo of an aura trying to form._ _

__Lucien drops the papers, gesturing to Alden. “You didn’t sense something off with his magic.”_ _

__Alden swallows and something in his expression cracks. Fragile fear bleeds through. “Off how?”_ _

__“Like there’s a distortion situated in your chest, a mass of something that shouldn’t be there.” Lucien grabs one of the paper’s from the table and shows it to them. “It feels like decay.”_ _

__“Decay?” Cassidy parrots, grabbing the paper from Lucien’s hands. “You can’t expect me to believe that only _you_ can sense it.”_ _

__“I can’t explain why.” There was always something off with his magic sense. He saw things other people couldn’t even consider. “Just look at this.” Lucien grabs another page, one with Alden’s magic signatures from the past few years all lined up. He holds it next to the one for decay. “Your magic signature is changing over time.”_ _

__Alden looks at it, a twisting fear settling into his gaze. “That coincidental—”_ _

__“No it isn’t!” Lucien shakes the pages before them. Samples shatter beside him. “Magic signatures don’t warp to the one of decay by mere coincidence!”_ _

__“What do you want me to _do_?” Alden shouts, his voice crackling, the pain and _terror_ breaking through._ _

__Heavy steps echo through the auditorium, followed by the sounds of guns clicking. Lucien drops the papers on the table and steps back. “It looks like you’ll have a lot of time to think about it.”_ _

__Alden glares at him, the terror being consumed by a fiery hot anger. Cassidy won’t look at anyone, running her hands through her hair. They don’t fight as they’re dragged off._ _

__

__“How did you figure out where they were located?” Braith asks days later, sitting at the head of the long table in the conference room. It’s empty._ _

__Lucien shifts, the silence amplifying the sounds of his clothes rustling. “An educated guess I suppose.” Lucien shrugs, the lie falling from his lips with ease. He’s gotten particularly good at lying. “I recognized the auditorium from a high school tour before it closed down.”_ _

__“Very well.” Braith frowns and they both know it’s a lie. But he has no evidence otherwise. “You may—”_ _

__“Wait.” Lucien cuts him off, unable to end it here. “What are you going to do with their research?”_ _

__Braith narrows his eyes, his hands folding together. “I’ll figure out something. Why?”_ _

__“I wanted to look over it. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Excitement and elation bubbles up within him at the prospect of looking over the notes. That glimpse in the auditorium wasn’t enough._ _

__He _needs_ more._ _

__“I don’t see why not.” Braith leans forward. A green for an entirely different reason rests in his face. “Do tell if you find anything interesting.”_ _

__“Of course.” Lucien stands, lowering his head to Braith before leaving. He can already see the equations unfurling before him, the small snippets that need to be reworked or removed._ _

__The dark, twisted side of him, the side that he doesn’t like to look at, turns over. It awakens slowly, beadily opening one eye. The prospect of discovery entices, drawing it out from the remains of the box Lucien tried to shove it in._ _

__He finds that he no longer minds looking at. That he revels in it._ _

__And for once in a long, long time, Lucien no longer feels like he’s living memories he’s long forgotten, memories he’s never experienced before and yet are as clear as glass._ _

__For once he finally feels like he’s settled into the present rather than some life he’s never lived._ _

__The ravenous cavern inside of his chest doesn’t grow any smaller, but it becomes more bearable to live with. It’s sated with something he had forgotten that he could even want and accompanied with a beast he knew was a part of him this entire time._ _

__Lucien shuts the door to his room, the sound echoing in the silence. He leans against the stiff wood, sliding down until he meets the floor. He drops his head into his hands. He laughs and laughs and _laughs_ until he no longer knows if he’s laughing or _sobbing_._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I enjoy writing introspective pieces, yesterday's piece is a testament to that, this pieces is a little different than anything I've previously written. Lucien's character growth can clearly be seen through the scenes and it's almost a coming-of-age-esque story. If those stories occurred in one's twenties.
> 
> Also, with the discussion of asexuality, I am asexual. More specifically, a sex adverse asexual. This is reflected in Lucien's character but not a reflection of the asexual community as a whole. If you guys have any questions, feel free to ask them. I don't mind answering.
> 
> Terms:  
> Challenge: refers to the practice of challenging someone to a Race or a Battle for a position or other matter. A Race is a flying race between two people and a Battle is a sword duel between two people. The person initiating the Challenge chooses whether it is a Race or a Battle.
> 
> _Atheos_ : Small creature of magic that sometime collect around people displaying a magic aura. They reflect the user's magic color.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	21. hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been three days since they’ve seen Evander. Everly’s getting worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this is a stand alone piece, it is continuation of my previous piece, Frost-Covered Window. I posted it today as well, so if you are so inclined, you can read it. There is a short story and a comic outline and this story is a continuation of the comic. 
> 
> It is linked [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141505?view_full_work=true).
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: implied abuse, implied child abuse

Everly watches August play in front of the fire, his book sprawled out beside him and his magic flickering. August creates small creatures of magic that he plays with like dolls, moving them around and dissipating them when he grows bored. 

Something shifts in Everly at the sight of the creation magic, so distinctly unfamiliar yet as familiar as the summer sun. His magic could’ve been meant for creation at one point in his life, but he let that slip from his grasp. He had hoped for a magic that would please Paris, something destructive and powerful. Kaiden answered his call, lending him the cruel history of his spellbook. 

It’s only years later that Everly learned that Paris was far from the people he should be pleasing. That what he did to Everly and the children he was raised with as brothers was wrong. It was only after seeing the unadulterated happiness and attention that August gave Everly did he realize that there was no family with Paris. 

Sometimes, when the shadows press a little close and Kaiden’s nowhere in sight, Everly thinks of the other boys with him. He escaped only by leaving them behind. It was years since he’s heard from them, even from the gossip and rumors. He wonders if they’re okay.

He wonders if they’re even alive.

They couldn’t help that they were Paris’s children and they didn’t deserve to die because of it. But as much as Everly wants to grant them the same freedoms that he received, he couldn’t even step foot in the castle. The mere thought sent his heart hammering in his chest and his breath shuddering to a stop. He couldn’t do it.

Everly flinches as August slams into his slide. August latches onto Everly’s arm, looking up to him with large, watery eyes. Everly reaches over and tentatively rubs a hand in August’s hair. “Is everything okay?”

August shakes his head, frowning. “I miss Evander. When is he coming back?” His voice trembles and he digs his fingers into the sleeve of Every’s shirt.

Everly swallows, stopping threading his fingers through August’s hair. “I don’t know.”

August detaches himself, looking back up to Everly with a serious expression on his face. “Then we have to go looking for him!” He sits back, wiping his face with his sleeve. “He could be lost!”

Everly glances to the window. The storm is still raging, layering sheet upon sheet of snow. He couldn’t bring August out there. “How about this,” Everly stands, leaning over his knees to point to the toys August’s abandoned. “You go and clean up your toys and I’ll look for Evander. Can you do that for me?”

August nods, although the frown doesn’t leave his face. “Won’t Father get mad if you leave?”

“I’ll be back soon.” Everly gives August a grin that he hopes doesn’t look as shaky as it feels. “And if Father asks, you’ll just have to tell him where I am.”

“Okay.” August his hands in fists, his voice steadier and more sure. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.” Everly straightens up and grabs his cloak from the closet.

August watches him as he steps out into the snow, the cold instantly seeping into the thick material of his cloak. He draws it further over himself and sets off in a random direction. He retraces his steps from a few nights before, hoping to find something that could give him an indication where Evander is.

Magic assaults his sense, dulled and sickly but undeniably familiar. Evander is nearby. Somewhere in the midst of all this snow. “Evander!” He calls out, his voice echoing in the artificial silence of snow.

It’s quiet and for a sickening moment Everly believes he only imagined the magic.

But it jolts against his sense and this time he can detect it’s _direction_. He takes off in the vague direction he sensed, drawing in large lungfuls of the icy air. It _burns_ but Everly can barely feel it. It couldn’t hurt more than the thought that he might be too _late_. Because the magic was even weaker than the first time he sensed it.

He stumbles into a small clearing, an abandoned shell of a building standing before him. One of the walls lay collapsed in a pile of bricks and debris but the roof is intact enough to act as a shelter. Everly flares his magic and steps into the building.

It creaks when Everly brushes his fingers against the remaining walls, the chill seeping into his skin. A few feet from the entrance—could Everly even call the collapsed wall an entrance?—in a corner, sits Evander. He’s huddled in a tight ball, oddly still. He raises his head when Everly approaches, his eyes unfocused. “Everly?” His words are slurred and muddled and it takes him far too long to force the words out. “Are you really here?”

Everly crouched beside Evander, pressing a hand against his skin. It’s too cold. “I’m here. What happened?”  
Evander latches on to Everly wrist, his fingers icy and tinged with a blue color. “I got lost.” He frowns, his voice shakily and wavering. “I’m tired, Ever.”

“Wait Evander!” Everly presses both of his hands to Evander’s face, trying to keep him awake. “You can’t fall asleep!”

Evander mumbles something Everly can’t make out before slumping forward. Everly catches him in his arms, the damp fabric of his clothes soaking his sleeves. Panic floods through him and he can barely breathe. “Kaiden.” Everly croaks out, the name barely heard over the roaring wind. He swallows and tries again. “Kaiden!”

Kaiden appears across from Everly, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie and the perpetual smirk still on his face. “Finally realized that…” Kaiden trails off, glancing between Everly and Evander’s form in his arms. “What’s going on?”

“Kaiden.” Everly’s voice cracks, a sob breaking through. He couldn’t lose the fragile pieces of what could become a family. “Help.”

Kaiden crouches down, narrowing his eyes. “You need to get him out of that cloak. It’s all wet. Put yours on him instead.”

Everly nods. “I can do that.” He shakily leans Evander against the wall, unbuttoning his cloak and draping it across his lap. Everly removes his own and fastens it around Evander. The cold tears through his clothes, settling somewhere deep within his chest. 

“Put on his cloak and pick him up. I hope you know how to get back.” Kaiden disappears with a crackle of magic, leaving behind the dissipating atheos that only Everly can see. 

He pulls on the cloak, the wet material laying heavy against his back. He maneuvers himself beside Evander and drapes one of his arms over his shoulder. Everly snakes his hand around Evander’s waist, pressing Evander against his side. 

Everly hauls him up, nearly stumbling over the side. Evander groans and his eyes open to thin slits. “Where are we going?” He mumbles out, beadily turning over to Everly.

“Home.” Everly takes the first step and Evander stumbles with him. But his eyes start to slide shut again. “Hey, I need your help walking.”

Evander grins, although it’s weak and thin. “You’re asking for help? That’s a first.”

“C’mon, I know you’re out of it but you can lay off me.” Everly narrows his eyes against the storm, following the thin trace of his own magic. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be friendly.”

“I think it will.” Evander tightens his grip against Everly's shoulder, his fingers digging into the wet fabric. 

Everly hums and pushes them forward. He continues like this, instigating Evander whenever he starts to fall silent or lag behind. His responses become quieter, barely heard over the wind, and it takes him longer to dredge up the words. Everly just tightens his grip around Evander’s waist and keeps going.

The lights from the castle cut through the heavy snowfall, the pale yellow loosening the heavy weight in his chest. He tears open the door and drags Evander inside. He’s limp in Everly’s grasp, barely able to keep himself standing. 

August jolts up at the sight of them, rushing over. “Ever! You found him!”

Everly holds out a hand, stopping him. “Go and get the nurse. We need to warm him up.”

August darts out of the room and Everly stumbles, falling to his knees but keeping Evander from collapsing against the floor. His head lolls against Everly’s shoulder and his grip slackens. Everly’s fingers are stiff against Evander’s waist, the chill brought to his attention with the warm of the room. Everly wants to lay there and just sleep until his limbs are no longer numb.

But he can’t do that. Evander’s counting on him. Evander _trusted_ him despite his every attempt to make it clear he couldn’t care less for him. 

“Everly!” Kaiden hisses from beside him, crouched over and eyes trained upwards. “Your father’s coming.”

Everly’s head snaps up. His father is walking in, expression flat but his eyes set with the thinnest shards of concern. “Father.” Everly forces out. Kaiden’s eyes are still trained on Lukas, narrowed and his posture oddly tense.

Lukas kneels beside Evander, draping his other arm over his shoulder. He draws him up, Everly following the movement. “Let’s bring him to the infirmary.”

Everly nods, slow and unsure. Lukas wasn’t one to outwardly display any form of care or affection, rather standing back and letting Rylee serve as their source of comfort. If anything, it casted doubt on how much Lukas cared for any of them, no matter the fact that they’re his children. 

Evander didn’t like that, lashing out and fighting with Lukas at every opportunity. Everly couldn’t say he feels the same. Whatever this awkward distance Lukas builds is better than the manipulation Paris coated with sickly sweet falsities. 

They lay Evander over the closest bed and the nurse sets to work, stripping him of his outer layers of clothes and replacing them with dry ones. Lukas watches for a moment, silent and his expression unreadable. Everly stands, glancing between him and Evander and Kaiden, who decided to hover in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest.

Lukas does leave, providing parting words to the nurse that he should be updated if anything happens. Muscles that Everly didn’t even realize were tensed loosen as the door slams shut. He slumps into a nearby chair and peels off his cloak. He drops in a pile on the floor and settles his gaze on Evander. 

Everly dozes while he waits for Evander to wake up, alternating between a limited awareness and a light sleep. When he does come to, the lights are dimmed and the storm raging on the other side of the window has quieted. 

Kaiden is still leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes narrowed. He’s thinking about something although Everly never could extract what it was. A broken nostalgia settles in his gaze, something that Everly doesn’t think he knows is there.

Evander groans and Everly sits up, leaning forward. “Evander?” Everly’s voice is soft and tinged with a thin coat of fear.

Evander opens his eyes, confusion evident in his expression. “Everly? Where am I?”

“The infirmary.” Everly says. He drags his chair closer to the bed. Kaiden only watches, his gaze heavy on Everly’s back. “You gave yourself some pretty bad hypothermia.”

Evander hums, narrowing his eyes. “I guess I did.” He tries to draw himself up from the bed, leaning on shakily arms.

“Hey wait!” Everly reaches out, fingers brushing against Evander’s arm. “You should—”

“Don’t touch me!” Evander shoves Everly’s hand off him, nearly falling over in the process. “I don’t need your help!”

Everly awkwardly hovers with his hand outstretched. He’s not quite sure what to do, not wanting to watch Evander hurt himself but also wanting to respect the tentative and fragile relationship they had. 

Evander leans back, resting his head against the walls. He glances over to Everly, his gaze half-lidded. “I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet and strained.

“It’s okay.” Everly leans back but he doesn't move his chair away. “I shouldn’t have touched you.”

Something flickers across Evander’s expression but it’s gone before Everly can attempt to decipher it. Evander looks away, silent. For a moment, neither of them speak and Everly wonders if Evander’s fallen asleep. Just before Everly moves his chair back, Evander’s voice breaks over the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

Unease breaks over Everly. There is so much that he doesn’t want to explain, so many questions that Evander could ask that he doesn’t want to answer. But he can’t bring himself to say no. “Sure.” His voice is drawn thin and his hesitation is evident. 

“Who is Kaiden?” Evander asks. He fiddles with the blankets, but his gaze is set solely on Everly. The ice blue of his eyes are so different yet completely similar to Everly’s. “You called out for him. Back in the snow.”

Everly blood runs cold. He hadn’t realized that Evander was still awake. He slipped up in an act of desperation, driven by fear and irrational thought. It was idiotic of him to call out for Kaiden. 

He glances over to where Kaiden stands despite everything telling him not to. Evander could catch him looking at someone who’s not there and put the pieces together. Either he’ll figure out that spirits exist or brand Everly with a type of crazy that can’t be cured.

Kaiden drags his gaze over the Everly, a bored expression on his face. It sends a sinking feeling deep within his stomach that warps into a churning nausea. Kaiden shrugs, a flicker of a grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry kid, you got yourself into this one. There’s nothing _I_ can do.”

“Everly?” Evander’s voice tears Everly out of his thoughts. He looks back to Evander. The confusion has morphed into concern. “Is everything alright?” His voice is hesitant, as if he’s dealing with someone teetering on the edge of sanity.

“I’ll tell you who Kaiden, but you have to trust me.” Everly leans forward, his voice thready and not quite there. Maybe he’s less sane than he thought. “It’s going to sound insane.”

Kaiden moves from his spot at the wall, his enjoyment melting off his face. It leaves a detached panic that looks misplaced. “Everly, what do you think you’re doing?”

Evander frowns but he doesn’t shrink away for protest. “I can do that.”

Kaiden stalks across the room, his magic arcing off him. The lights flicker but Evander doesn’t even flinch. “If you say another _word_ , I’ll personally make sure that you never speak again.”

Everly ignores him. Kaiden can’t even interact with anything in this world. They’ve already been through this. Kaiden shoves a hand through Everly's chest, his magic pulsing and crackling. Instinctively, Everly flares his own magic, protecting himself. “Kaiden is a—”

Something splinters in his chest, cracking and tearing into his lungs. For a moment, everything goes dark, thicker and far more suffocating than anything he’s experienced.

And then everything becomes bright and he _burns _.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	22. poisoned, drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien’s tolerated so much for Alden but he’s finally crossed the line. He doesn’t get to kill his brother and return unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back again with Lucien! If you couldn't tell, he's one of my favorite characters. I love writing with him.
> 
> Also, this story can be considered a prequel to [chapter 19](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751259/chapters/66194929) but both are stand alone and can be read without the context.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: character death, involuntary drug use, blood, abuse mention

Lucien’s steps echo through the empty hall of the Oligarchy’s castle, his hands shoved into the pockets of his lab coat. His fingers brush against a needle and vial in them, the glass cold against his touch. The liquid inside pulses against his magic, latching onto anything it can find. He removes his fingers as if it burned him.

He can’t have it contaminated. Not now, not when he needs everything to align impeccably. If he slips up even once, everything will fall apart in his hands. He can’t afford to have that happen.

Julian doesn’t deserve to go through anymore.

After everything Alden’s done to him, done to his family, this is more than fully deserved. Lucien warned him. Alden’s the one that pushed past the limits Lucien set. Maybe Lucien should feel something more than the dull numbness at the prospect of sliding the needle under Alden’s skin, but he doesn’t. He wishes he could say that this will be the worst thing he’s done, but unfortunately he can’t. 

He’s done much, _much_ worse.

You could twist it and say it was for his survival, that he had no other choice but blur the lines between creation and destruction. But he decided to grab the very rules of reality and tear them apart, reconstructing them to suit his needs. Cassidy’s name was the one plastered beneath the wing cloning discovery, but the three of them all knew who figured out how to clone _magic_. 

He decided to play god and he was still suffering the consequences. This was just one of them.

And if he’s being honest, he hasn’t _stopped_.

It was for a different patron, but he’s still manipulating magic in a way that no human should. Alden asked him to recreate magic from nothing and Braith asked him to hone magic to the point it’s a deadly blade. Now he has a solution of magic so refined that it’s more unstable than _his_ magic. And in his lab is one manipulated to the point it no longer resembles any magic he’s seen in his life. 

He hasn’t had the chance to use either of them before this moment. Part of him had hoped he wouldn’t find a reason to.

Another part of him relishes in the thought of scientific discovery.

The guard to the prison stops him, holding a hand against his chest. “Lucien.” The guard says his name awkwardly, as if he’s unsure how to address him. “You can’t go beyond this point.”

Lucien looks over to the guard, keeping his gaze purposely lazy and disinterested. His magic cracks against his skin and he shifts a foot back. “On whose orders?”

For a moment, Lucien expected the guard to say Morgan’s name, a reminder of his presence no matter where he goes. 

For a moment, he forgot it was his own _son_ who dethroned him.

“Lo— _King_ Briath’s.” The guard forces out, a slight stutter at his slip of tongue. Not that it matters, Lucien wasn’t going to voluntarily speak to Braith. The guard swallows. “He specifically said not to let you in.”

So Braith had made the connections between him and Alden and accurately predicted that Lucien would kill him. Lucien barely listened to Braith on the best of days, the little conversation the two of them had wasn’t going to change anything now. He had no respect for a man who upturned the entire Oligarchy just to prove that he was _stronger_ than Lucien.

None of that matters, it’ll all come out in the end when Lucien Challenges Braith. He’ll let Braith have his fun and then he’ll tear him down from his throne. He’s denied his position as head of the Levine family for long enough, it’s about time he’s done something.

He can’t keep letting Julian take the fall for him. 

“That isn’t _Lord_ Braith’s decision to make.” Lucien grins, letting a shard of dark, decayed magic pooling inside of him rest inside it. “There’s something I need to discuss with Alden. We have a bit of a history.”

There’s numerous ways that the guard could decipher his words and he doesn’t elaborate. Anything that the guard decides upon is fine. It’ll shake him up.

The guard pales and won’t meet Lucien's eyes. “He can’t help you with your research.”

Hm, he took the easy way out. It would’ve been more interesting to see the guard trying to explain away the relationship Lucien had with Alden. “He isn’t helping per se,” Lucien reaches into his pocket and removes the needle. He doubt’s that the guard has enough medical knowledge to refute his claims. “I need a sample from him. It’s vital.”

The guard pauses, hesitation painted clearly across his face. “I’ll let you in for a few minutes. Only to grab the sample.”

“Of course.” Lucien lies, the words easily falling from his lips. He wonders when it became so easy to lie.

He wonders if there was ever a time where it wasn’t. 

The guard steps to the side and Lucien talks past him, returning the needle to his pocket. His finger brushes against the vial and the magic within flickers. He draws his hand back as if he is burned. He let’s none of this show on his face. 

The prison is filled with long halls of bleak grey concrete and too-white lights. His magic crackles against his skin in response. The magic of criminals and the sorts echo against his sense, bitter from anger and resentment.

He could understand those feelings quite well.

He stops before Alden’s cell, tucked in the corner and away from the other prisoners. Alden wielded his words with the precision of a surgeon, they couldn’t risk what he’d say to the others. They couldn’t handle a mutiny that Alden led. They’ve already seen that once.

Alden sits on the thick wooden slab of a bench, his back pressed against the smooth wall. He watches Lucien walk over and stop in front of the door, eyes narrowed just enough to cover the flicker of relief that dances across his face. 

Maybe something cracks within Lucien at that moment but no one has to know. 

“Lucien.” Alden draws out Lucien's name, unable to hide the shards of ease from entering his voice. His posture relaxes and he leans against the wall. “What brings you down here?”

Lucien presses a hand against the lock and flares his magic. The fragile mechanism melts under his grasp and the door swings open with the sound of clattering metal. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable.” Lucien’s voice is low and flat, edging on bitter and desperate.

Alden swallows, gaze flickering between Lucien and the door behind him. “And where are we going?”

Lucien shoves a hand into his pockets, looking over to the camera trained on Alden cell. He steps over and reaches up with his free hand and brushes it against the lens. The whole thing crumbles under his magic, leaving behind a sparking shell. “Nowhere far.” Lucien turns back to Alden, removing the needle and vial from his pocket.

Alden pales, his hands tightening into a knotted fist in his lap. “Lucien.” Alden says Lucien's name again as if that would change anything. “You don’t have to do this.”

Lucien inserts the needle into the top of the vial, drawing out the pearly white liquid. He fills the needle, far more than enough to kill Alden. He returns the vial to his pocket. “You’ve crossed the line, Alden. I would’ve left you alone if you only listened to me.”

At one point, Lucien considered saving Alden, the twisted feelings inside of him screaming with the thought of killing him. It would've been so easy to unlock Alden’s shackles and stride out with him, no matter what Braith tries to do.

But it’s even easier to slip a needled beneath Alden’s skin.

Alden watches the needle, his eyes following the liquid shift in the shaft. Fear dances in his gaze, unrestraint. “It was necessary.” He shifts, the shackles on his wrist clatter against the wooden bench. It was almost like Alden was uncertain.

“Raymond’s death and Julian’s abuse was necessary?” Lucien’s voice is cold and clipped, the fractured shards of his composure slipping. “Necessary for what?”

“The world deserved to know what we almost discovered.” Despite everything, Alden grins, thin and manic. “And it _does_.”

“It didn’t.” Lucien walks forward. He places a hand on Alden’s wrist and Alden flinches beneath his touch. “Not like this.”

“Discovery isn’t something you can contain.” Alden’s voice shakes but it doesn’t dent the smile on his face. “It will take everything down with it.”

“My family isn’t some casualty for something as fruitless as discovery.” Lucien rolls up Alden’s sleeve, leaning over him so he couldn't struggle. Alden tries anyway. “They fell because of your decisions and I want to know what they are.”

Alden’s gaze is set on the needle that Lucien has poised over his skin. He’s trembling despite his every attempt to hide it. Alden’s silent, the ambiance of the prison settling over them. Lucien doesn’t move.

Alden sighs, his breath rattling in his chest. “Y’know.” Alden drags his gaze upwards, meeting Lucien’s. His eyes are tired, the normally vibrant green is dulled to something unrecognizable. Something that would be nostalgia on anyone else drifts in his eyes. “I can’t even remember.”

Alden’s lying. Lucien knows that Alden’s lying but there’s no guarantee that he’ll get the truth out of him. Lucien desperately wants to know why Alden killed Raymond, why he even kidnapped him in the first place. But, just like the time Lucien confronted Alden almost six years ago, Alden won’t tell him why.

Part of Lucien knows, the part that Lucien doesn’t want to acknowledge. The part that tears when he pushes the needle into the fragile skin at the crook of Alden’s elbow. 

Lucien stares into Alden eyes one last time and presses down on the stopper. 

The effect is almost instantaneous. Alden’s magic crackles and lashes out, the tainted decay present for the both of them to see. Lucien tears the needle out of Alden’s flesh and steps back. Alden looks up to him, blood slipping out of his mouth and staining his teeth. His eyes are alight with a twisted, burning magic. “Your brother died thinking you _hated_ him.” Alden spits the words, thick with anger and blood. He has to get in one last barbed comment, one last attempt to rattle Lucien.

Lucien takes another step back, his hand brushing against the bars of the door. “And you’ll die _knowing_ that I hated you.”

Lucien watches as Alden withers with magic beyond his capabilities, magic that threatens to tear into Lucien if he doesn't have a carefully constructed barrier around him. The effects are exactly how Lucien planned; he induced a severe case of lisatheo. 

He watches with the jagged edges of a smile as Alden stills, the overwhelming magic dissipating harmlessly into the atmosphere. He turns on his heel and walks down the hall, his steps echoing in the silence left in his wake. He removes his lab coat and drapes it over his arm, the vial clinking against the needle as he walks.

One down, two more to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to anyone who can figure out who the two people Lucien are referring to in the end.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	23. exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian’s taken a life with his own hands and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He finds himself wandering through the capital, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this piece I have two characters that I created almost two weeks ago, so if their characterization is a little choppy, I apologize. I'm still trying to figure them out.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: hospital, character death mention

Julian storms through the crowded streets of Cervyne, his hands shoved into his pockets and his head trained on the rough ground before him. Guilt and frustration and a bitter emotion he doesn’t want to address pools in his stomach. He’s disgusted with himself.

He’s disgusted with what he forced Blaze to do.

Blaze may not have shown it, but he didn’t enjoy killing any more than Julian did. He gritted through it to clean up from Julian mess but would’ve rather not been there in the first place. Julian can see the exasperation and frustration in Blaze’s gaze no matter how much he tries to hide it.

And it isn’t only due to Julian killing someone, Julian had to go and kill some of the most important people in the kingdom. The waters between the Thieves Guilds were murky and choppy at best, now they’re a sea full of harsh waves. They barely tolerated Golden Dawn’s presence, not acting only because of Blaze’s influence and lack of reasoning. Now Julian’s handed them one of a silver platter. 

Blaze could solve this whole problem if he just offered Julian up, as much as the thought sickened him. But Blaze wouldn’t do something like that. His family comes before everything, even Golden Dawn. 

If it was with any other circumstances, Julian would appreciate the gesture. But right now it just feels like Julian’s dragging the whole Guild down with him. 

Julian stumbles, nearly falling to the ground if it weren’t for a steady hand on his shoulder. “Hey kid, are you alright?” A vaguely familiar voice says from above him, the concern palpable. 

“I’m not a kid.” Julian makes a move to shove off the hand, but the grip tightens and he’s unsuccessful. He looks up to meet the deep red eyes of Dorian Revere. 

Dorian’s drawn his bright red hair back against the base of his head, in no way taming it. He’s dressed in the Revere dark black and reds. The hand against Julian’s shoulder is gloved but it does nothing to hide the spark of magic in his grasp.

Dorian frowns, eyes narrowing and expression softening. He loosens his grip but doesn't remove his hand. “I’m Dorian Revere and you are?”

Julian swallows, fighting every instinct to shove his hand off his shoulder. A nobility looking closer at him could spell trouble, from both his family and his affiliations with Golden Dawn. “Julian.” He eventually forces out, doubting his ability to keep up with an alias.

“Well Julian, do you want to come with and sit down for a bit? You look a little unsteady on your feet.” Dorian glances up, eyes darting across the street to the nearby store fronts. “My store’s close.”

Julian would rather continue to wander the city alone, but he doesn’t think Dorian would drop this. The concern in his eyes is a bit too real for him to leave it at this. “Fine.” 

Dorian removes his hand but keeps a watchful eye on Julian as he leads him through the streets. He stops a few blocks down, before an elegant building labelled Mariana Winery across the top in elaborate script. Julian frowns, his posture stiffening. The idea of being offered any alcohol sickens him.

Dorian unlocks the door and pushes it open. Light cuts into the empty bar, table scattered throughout the room and a sturdy-looking bar counter pressed against the far wall. Dorian steps inside and flicks on the lights. Julian follows him in, sitting in the chair Dorian gestures to.

“So this is yours?” Julian starts, tentative and hesitant. He glances around the room and taking in the refined nature. He didn’t think anyone other than the Oligarchy could own a place like this.

Dorian reaches from beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle. He pours the scarlet liquid into a crystalline glass. “It’s been in my family for generations.” He slides the glass over to Julian. 

Julian grabs the glass, holding it gingerly in his grasp. It’s surprisingly cold against his skin. Dorian sighs and leans against the counter behind him. “It’s not alcoholic.”

Something must’ve shown in Julian’s expression. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip. It’s sweet with a thin, tart edge. He didn’t expect a bar to have grape juice. “Thank you.”

Something flickers across Dorian’s expression, too quick for Julian to decipher. “It’s no trouble.” Dorian glances to the door, the frown not leaving his face. But he turns back to Julian and continues to speak. “Now, can you—”

“Dorian! I didn’t know you were opening…” Another person charges into the bar, the crisp Cervyne military uniform over his shoulders and his hair a chilled shade of blue. His voice tapers off, quieting as his gaze lands on Julian. He stops a few paces in front of him. “Hey squirt, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Julian bites out, not meeting the man’s eyes. He instead takes another sip of his drink.

The man narrows his eyes, glancing between Julian and the drink in his hand. “Did you give him alcohol?”

Dorian glares at the wall, brows pressed together and drawing lines on his face. “It’s grape juice. The stuff that I always give you.” He sighs and shakes his head before returning his gaze to the man. “Keiran, why are you here?”

“I think the better question is: why do you have a kid in your bar?” Keiran walks over to the bar, leaning against it on Julian’s left. 

“He almost fell over when I ran into him.” Dorian shifts against the table, fiddling with his gloves.

Keiran frowns, the concern covering the serious, cold expression previously on his face. He reaches out and his fingers brush against Julian’s shoulder. “Do you have anyone we can call?”

Julian shrugs. He has people he can call. He just doesn’t want to call them. “I guess. My brother might pick up.”

“And who's your brother?” Dorian asks, his expression oddly guarded.

Julian doesn’t want to give them his brother’s name. It’ll eventually be linked back to his family, Dorian out of anyone should know his connection to Blaze. “Blaze Galloway.” 

Dorian looks over to Keiran, making eye contact with the man for the first time today. Something is conveyed between the two but Julian couldn’t pick up on it. Keiran turns back to him, a gentleness to his expression. “Do you want me to call this Blaze?”

Julian shakes his head. He places the glass down on the counter, the sound of it clattering against the wood echoing through the building. “I can do it myself.”

“Hey wait.” Dorian pushes off the table he’s been leaning against, reaching out to grab Julian’s arm. Julian twists away. “Don’t leave just yet.”

“Thank you again but I best be off.” Julian slides the chair back and tries to stand.

His legs crumple beneath him, the world tilting and swirling. A hand wraps around his arm, digging into the fabric of his jacket. Moments later his vision darkens and he blacks out.

——

Keiran grabs Julian’s arms before Dorian can even react, holding the kid upright and stopping him from collapsing to the floor. Keiran can’t school the surprise out of his face before Dorian catches it. “That wasn’t good.” Keiran provides unhelpfully, carefully maneuvering Julian back into his chair. “Do you think he’ll need to go to the hospital?”

Dorian wishes that he could say that Julian didn’t, but the state of the kid’s magic couldn’t be ignored. “His magic level’s low. At the very least he has minor lynatheo, if not worse.”

Keiran pulls off his glove and presses two fingers to Julian’s neck. His expression only darkens. “It’s pretty serious but not life threatening. A hospital should be able to fix him up.” He removes his finger, pulling his glove back on. 

Dorian grabs the glass, dragging it further down the counter. He had hoped the sugar would be enough to give Julian a little more energy. He couldn’t exactly give him any alcohol. “We’ll have to contact Blaze.”

Keiran nods, humming in agreeance. “Did you get his name?”

“Julian.” Dorian pauses. He didn’t want to make any assumptions, but the magic was too similar to be a coincidence. “The Levine, if I’m not mistaken.”

“We’ll have to add Lucien to that call list.” Keiran glances over to Dorian, a question in his gaze.

Dorian shakes his head. “Let’s get him to the hospital and then we’ll make some calls. I’ll handle Blaze, do you have Lucien?”

Keiran frowns, reluctance heavy in it. “I can do that.” He reaches over and pulls Julian into his arms. The frown only grows deeper.

“What’s wrong?” Dorian’s voice is sharper and more stilted that he would’ve liked. He walks around the counter, trying not to hover awkwardly beside them. 

“He’s light.” Keiran adjusts his grip, holding Julian by his shoulders and under his knees. The ‘too light’ was left unspoken.

“Let’s just get him to the hospital. We can deal with the rest afterwards.” Dorian strides over to the door, opening it for Keiran. (It wasn’t for Keiran. It was for Julian, Keiran just happened to be holding him.) He levels Keiran with a pointed look just before he crosses through the door. “And you’re not going to get out of telling me why you’re here.”

Keiran huffs as he steps through the door. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He activates his wings, the blue gleaming in the sun. It’s a little tacky that he dyed his hair to match the color of his wings.

Dorian locks the door behind him, activating his own wings. Keiran glances over to him, something unreadable in his expression, before he takes off into the sky. A moment later, Dorian follows him. 

——

Dorian leans against the outer wall of the hospital, the night air biting into the exposed skin on his face. He crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw aching. The second Blaze saw him standing in Julian’s room, he pounced. It was only a single punch, but Blaze knew exactly where to swing and how much magic to lace it with. 

He has to say he was lucky to make off with only a bruised jaw and a barely veiled threat. It’s only been a week since Blaze took out Matteo and Michelle after all. Not Golden Dawn’s smartest move, they practically declared war with it, but Dorian can understand the sentiment.

This is a game where everything goes to climb to the top. He can attest to that. It wasn’t easy to drag the fractured remains of Nightfall into some semblance of control. 

But he did what he had to do and that’s all that matters in the end. And if he’s the only one who knows the true story, then it isn’t anyone else’s place to tell, now is it?

The hospital doors slide open with a click and Dorian glances over. Keiran walks out, straightening his jacket and adjusting his gloves. He glances over and spots Dorian, much to Dorian’s dismay. Keiran’s gaze darts down to Dorian’s jaw and a thin, mocking grin rests on his face. “Blaze got you good, didn’t he?” If Dorian didn’t know better, he’d say there was concern in Keiran’s voice.

“Does that even matter?” Dorian doesn’t look Keiran in the eyes, instead watching the hospital doors over his right shoulder. 

“Only if you should be in a bed too.” Keiran gestures to the hospital with a flicker of his head, his voice light.

“It’s not that bad.” Dorian brings a hand up to his face, brushing his fingers against his jaw. He hasn’t seen it in a few hours, not since he’s stepped outside of the hospital. Who knows what it could look like now. 

Dorian can feel Keiran’s gaze heavy on his face. Keiran glances around the empty parking lot, his magic sparking his grasp. Small shards of ice form in his hand, gleaming yellow from the lamp light. He pulls out a small cloth from his pocket and wraps the ice. He holds it out to Dorian, oddly hesitant. “Here.”

Dorian stares at it, confusion pressing into his expression. “Why?”

Keiran narrows his eyes, exasperation and frustration cutting through his voice. “For your face, idiot.”

“Oh.” Dorian drops his hand from his face and grabs the cloth. It’s cold, bitingly so, but it's soothing against his jaw. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Something broken settles in Keiran’s gaze, fractured concern or something like it. But his grin doesn’t waver. “I didn’t want to ruin your reputation with your face messed up.”

Dorian grimaces. “Why are you really here, Keiran? It’s not just to mock me, is it?”

The grin falls from Keiran’s face, his expression sobering. “It’s about why I came to Mariana today.”

Dorian finally drags his gaze up to meet Keiran’s eyes, the icy blue set with a dark edge. “What is it?” Dorian forces out.

Keiran crosses his arms over his chest, leaning up against the wall. His posture is too stiff to feign nonchalance. “They’ve closed our father’s case.”

Dorian stiffens, the familiar grip of anxiety washing over him. He doesn’t let any of this show on his face, except for a carefully crafted veil of shock. “They’ve finally caught my father’s killer?”

Dorian already knows the answer, but he has to ask the question anyway.

Keiran frowns, eyes narrowed and vaguely suspicious. And maybe a touch hurt. “We haven’t. But Jane decided that they’re no use keeping it open. It’s grown cold and no more evidence has surfaced.”

He didn’t think any would’ve. “Nothing came out of the magic they found at the scene? Weren’t they saying that it was fire magic of all things?”

Keiran’s gaze flickers between Dorian and something over his shoulder. It returns to Dorian, sharper than before. “It was inconclusive. The signature was too damaged to make out anything relevant.”

Dorian hums. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?” His voice is a little too tight for comfort.

Keiran relaxes, the easy grin returning to his face. “It is.”

Keiran may know too much, but at the very least he’s not going to say anything, Dorian can count on that. Keiran enjoys the chaotic entertainment it brings too much to let the whole thing topple by saying the truth.

And if it requires the exploitation of the bonds Keiran foolishly believes they have, well Dorian’s done much worse without a shred of guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian: "Wow Keiran you look dumb with your hair matching your wings."
> 
> Also Dorian: his hair matches his wings
> 
> If you can tell, I make fun of the characters I love.
> 
> Terms:  
>  _Cervyne_ : meaning sky city; the capital of Calethyia.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	24. sensory deprivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Braith locks Julian in a room where he can’t sense anything. He didn't even know such a place existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back again with some more Julian angst. It's my MO apparently.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warning: burns, panic attack

Julian stands across from Braith, his mouth pressed flat and his head tilted upwards with the barest hints of defiance. Dorian stands a few paces beside him, a warning in his gaze. One that Julian doesn’t heed. Braith doesn't spare Dorian a glance, keeping his eyes set on Julian. A cruel light dances within them. “Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?”

Julian keeps his posture straight and his voice flat. “Completely.”

Dorian shifts slightly, his magic flickering against Julian’s sense. He knows exactly what Julian’s planning to do. He was against it and finding the whole procedure unnecessary. He thought Challenging Braith would result in a better outcome.

Julian’s more inclined to disagree. 

Braith narrows his eyes just enough so Julian could make out his displeasure. “Then why are you still standing here?” His voice is a flicker of annoyance pressed into a mask of control. 

“I refuse.” Julian’s voice echoes through the room, charged with the sparking shards of his magic. “I no longer wish to follow your orders, _Braith_.”

Braith leans forward, the guise flux relaxation he was presenting disappearing. “I would revise how you addressed me if there’s any semblance of intelligence left within you.”

“I’m not going to address you by King.” Julian’s wings ache and he stomps out the tremor that threatens to overtake him. The memory of his clipped wings are too fresh for him to dwell on. “We’re both Lords but you don’t even command that level of respect.”

Dorian’s hand clamps around Julian’s arm and he can’t suppress the flinch. “ _Julian_.” Dorian hisses, his eyes still set on Braith.

Julian was going too far but he didn’t care. He’s already experienced Braith’s worse and came back with this vindictive anger.

“No, let him speak.” Braith grins, dark and ravenous. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Your cruelty is going to be your downfall.” Julian shoves Dorian’s hand off his arm and steps forward. He lets his magic sit suspended in the air. “And I’m not going to stand by a broken throne.”

“Your naivety is showing.” Braith steps down from his throne, slipping a hand into his pocket. He withdraws a thin needle with a clear liquid glimmering inside. “You’re mistaking cruelty for strength.”

Braith pounces, deftly spinning the needle in his hand and aiming for Julian’s neck. Julian steps back, reaching for his gun. He doesn’t make it that far before Braith swipes his legs out from underneath him. His stints in the towers must’ve left him more out of practice than he thought. He’ll have to remedy that if he’s to Challenge Braith to a Vineris.

He collides against the floor, stars bursting in his vision. Braith poises the needle at the junction between Julian’s neck and shoulder. Julian glances over to Dorian. He doesn’t move, bitter anger simmering beneath his expression. 

Braith presses the needle into Julian’s neck and he _freezes_. His magic flickers out, retreating to a mass in the center of his chest. His sense shrinks and even Dorian’s distinctive magic peters out into a measly flame. 

Braith removes the needle from Julian’s neck. He shoves Julian into the floor and stands, shaking out his wrists as if it strained him. He looks over to Dorain and holds out a pair of cuffs. “Restrain him.”

Dorian swallows. But he grabs the cuffs and kneels beside Julian. He drags Julian’s arms behind him, far more gently than Braith would’ve. Julian’s neck aches, the pain more acute without his magic.

Dorian drags him up, steadying him when he stumbles. Dorian leans against Julian’s back, his breath light against Julian’s ear. “I’m sorry.”

Julian nods minutely, unable to voice his response. He hopes it conveys that Julian doesn't blame Dorian. 

Braith watches the two of them with detached interest, his hands crossed over his chest. He turns the moment Dorian gets Julian standing. “Follow me.”

Dorian prods Julian forward, pressing a palm on the small of Julian’s back. Julian walks forward, following Braith through the winding halls of the Oligarchy. Julian’s confusion only grows when they pass the stairs to the towers. He was certain that Braith would throw him a cell for a few days to punish him. 

Braith stops in front of a nondescript door, the metal thick and heavy. He unlocks it but doesn’t open it. Instead he pulls out a thin strip of cloth and holds it out to Dorian. “Blindfold him.”

Dorian takes the cloth, holding it gingerly in his hand before turning to Julian. The apology is written plainly on his face. Julian just shakes his head. Dorian steps behind him and wraps the blindfold over Julian’s eyes.

Spotted light filters through the cloth but not enough to make out anything. The door creaks open. The metal scraps against the floor. A hand grasps his arm, the grip strong and painful. His cuffs slip off his wrist. Braith’s voice filters over him. “I hope you enjoy your time here, It was designed especially for you.”

Braith shoves Julian into the room. 

Julian stumbles before colliding into the floor, his face scraping against the smooth concrete. It’s cold. The door shuts with a slam.

Everything disappears.

He can’t feel his magic. Even under suppressants he can feel the gentle brush of magic around him, trace his surroundings with the residue of magic collecting on the nearby surfaces. Now, there's nothing. 

He can’t see. He can’t feel. He can’t _breathe_.

The sound of his aborted breaths tear through the harsh silence, silence that’s far too loud and far too quiet. He digs his fingers into the ground, chafing the skin. What had Braith _done_?

What was in that needle that took away his magic?

How long will he be without his magic?

What if he doesn’t get his magic _back _?__

__Julian presses his forehead against the concrete, dragging his fingers through his hair and scraping against his skull. What if Braith took away his wings?_ _

__He can’t feel his wings. The familiar presence resting in the edges of his sense awaiting to be called on is gone. His wings are gone. His wings are gone. His wing—_ _

__He presses his head hard into the ground as if it could drive out the thought. He has no proof of either. He can’t assume. Assumptions like that will kill him._ _

__He draws in a breath, shuddering uselessly in his chest. He needs to calm down. Panicking will only serve to prove Braith right. And he will not give anything to Braith._ _

__His back aches as he straightens up, the pain bright without his magic. He brings a hand up to his face and pulls at the blind fold. It sticks to his skin and he can’t pull it off without tearing his skin. He leaves it there. The room’s dark no matter if he has the blindfold on or not._ _

__The concrete is bitterly cold against his hands. He slowly traces along the floor, crawling until he meets the sharp corner of a wall. He brings himself up into a standing position and starts to walk. He nearly runs into the next wall, his outstretched hand barely stops himself._ _

__Bitter frustration boils up between the panic and fear. He can’t live like this. How is he going to navigate without his sense? Sight can’t replace the fine tuned magic sense that he’s spent all his life honing. How is he going to be able to fly?_ _

__Is he going to be able to fly at all after this?_ _

__Blaze already hates him, how is he going to feel if he learns that Julian can’t fly? Having a treacherous brother is one thing, a _flightless_ one is another. There will be no more evidence that Julian’s even related to him, with his magic signature gone completely. Will there be any proof that he’s a Levine?_ _

__Will there be any proof that he _exists_ at all?_ _

__He presses himself into the corner of the room, trying to stifle the sound of his crying. The tears run down his face, hot and sticky. He’s pathetic._ _

__The thought does nothing to stop the burning in his eyes.__

__——_ _

__Dorian storms down the halls, his magic crackling beneath his skin. It takes everything within him to stop the fire that threatens to dance across his skin. Harvey owes him some answers and he owes them now._  
_

__There was no way that Harvey didn’t know about the deprivation chamber that Braith shoved Julian in._ _

__Even standing outside of it, Dorian could taste the bitter chill coming from the room. It latched onto his magic, tearing it apart and stealing away any of the fragments it could touch. Dorian was eager to leave as soon as possible._ _

__But Julian’s forced to stay in there for however long Braith pleases._ _

__He doesn’t bother knocking on Harvey’s door. He shoves it open and Harvey glances up from his desk. It’s unfortunate that he wasn’t in a more compromising situation._ _

__Shock flickers across his face but he quickly wrangles into a muted confusion. “Dorian, what are you doing here?”_ _

__“Does a deprivation chamber sound familiar to you?” Jagged anger tears through Dorian’s voice, barbed and bitter. “Or perhaps Julian’s plan that got himself thrown into it?”_ _

__Harvey has the audacity to not even look guilty, the faked confusion still on his face. “Julian knew the risks when he argued with Braith.”_ _

__“But you didn’t tell him about this one.” Dorain steps forward, leaning against the hard wood of Havery’s desk. The faint scent of smoke permeates the air. “You knew and you didn’t say a thing.”_ _

__“It wasn’t my place.” Harvey tries to regain a semblance of control, to keep the smoothness in his voice. But no matter how much he tries to imitate Braith, it doesn’t change who he truly is. “Braith barely mentioned it. I didn’t think it was a definite possibility.”_ _

__“You were wrong.” Dorian digs his fingers into the wood, the fabric of his gloves cutting into his skin. “Braith was fairly confident in this punishment. I doubt that would come from him barely mentioning it.”_ _

__Harvey swallows, thin shards of fear dance in his expression. Dorian relishes in it. “I didn’t know how Julian would react to it.” His voice is small, quivering slightly. To think that he lives in a place with so much magic and still fears it._ _

__“You didn’t tell him so he wouldn’t back out? How pathetic are you? If you’re going to manipulate someone, do it correctly.” Dorian couldn’t stop the hint of a flame that dances across his skin, easily mistaken as a crackle of his vermillion magic._ _

__“What do you mean?” Harvey’s magic flickers warily, the lie caught between his teeth. Dorian had always wondered how Harvey got Julian under his control._ _

__Although, after this show, he considers the fact that it might be the other way around. Julian might have more subtle manipulative abilities than he thought._ _

__Dorian leans farther over the desk, pressing a hand against Harvey’s neck. He can feel Harvey’s throat bob beneath his palm. He gives Harvey a thin grin. “You only respond to power. To get you to follow me, all I need to do is display how much more I have than you.” His magic crackles between his fingers. Harvey whimpers and burns blooms beneath Dorian’s fingers. “If you learn anything from Braith, you come straight to me. If you don’t, you’ll be left with a little more than a burn against your skin.”_ _

__Dorian releases Harvey. He drops limp, bringing a hand to his throat and coughing quietly. Dorian steps back, crossing his hands over his chest. The faint imprint of his hand mars the surface of Harvey’s desk. Harvey looks up to glare, his gaze sharp and full of malice, but he doesn’t speak._ _

__Dorian lets a stray spark jump off his skin. Harvey’s unable to hide his flinch. Another reason why he couldn’t imitate Braith. He lacks control._ _

__Dorian turns and leaves. He has a _King_ to challenge._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	25. ringing ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. It’s the first time that Julian’s pulled the trigger. It’s certainly far from the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun to write and I've waiting to write it for a while. As a heads up, this installation is the second to last in the powerless AU I've been writing.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: guns, character death, blood, police

Julian drums his fingers on the table, the steady thump echoing through the empty room. The lights are off, the small living room only illuminated by the open window. His other hand rests in his lap, the metal of his gun icy against his skin. His gaze is set on the door, waiting for it to open.

The moment Braith walks through this door, he’s going to plant a bullet in his brain. He can see it now, the expanse of Braith’s forehead in the center of his sights. The sound of his gun firing, tearing the silence. Or it would if he didn’t have a silencer fitted to the barrel of it.

Nothing but bitter satisfaction pools in his gut at the prospect of killing Braith. He should feel something more than that, something more familiar to guilt or dread. But he doesn’t. His anger is cruel and vindictive. He can’t stop at threatening Braith, it wouldn’t be fair. An eye for an eye is what they say.

Braith’s life for his father’s. And if Julian’s forced to be the one to enact this, then so be it. Anger is a powerful motivator when used correctly. 

At first his anger paralyzed him, twisting viciously in his chest and threatening to choke him. He floundered, trying to get his bearings in a world he no longer understood and wielding an emotion sharp enough to cut him. He carved his hand open trying to wrangle it under control, refining the smoldering mass into something deadly and ice cold.

It’s far more useful this way. He wields as a weapon, tearing through anything that stands in his way. Now he’s finally reached his goal. Braith will stand before him soon.

He runs a finger along the safety of his gun. He knows he should disengage it now, ensuring the quickest firing as possible, but he wants Braith to know that he’s serious. That he isn’t just pointing the gun around like it’s a toy. 

The fear dancing in Braith’s eyes the moment Julian slides his finger across the safety will be something he cherishes.

The lock on the door clicks in the silence, the door swinging open. Braith stands in the entrance, holding keys in one hand and his jacket is draped over the other arm. Surprise flickers across his face but it’s quickly pressed into something flat. “Julian. What brings you here at this hour?” His voice is just as flat, controlled with a practiced precision.

Julian draws the gun, leveling it at Braith’s forehead. “Close the door.” Clipped anger curls around his words, chilled and icy.

Braith eyes the gun curiously, as if he’s intrigued. The shock as long since worn off. “There’s better ways to talk with me.” Braith shuts the door behind him, bathing the room in darkness once more.

“I’m not here to talk.” Julian flicks off the safety, the sound echoing through the apartment.

Fear doesn’t even cross Braith’s expression. The veiled intrigue melts into a sharp condescending edge with a tilt of his head. “I think you're going to find all you can do is talk.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Julian’s voice is bitter but his hands are shaking. His finger stiffens around the trigger. He can’t pull it.

After everything he still can’t pull the trigger.

Bratih grins and it sends icy fingers crawling down Julian’s spine. “Put the gun away and sit down. If you’re willing to talk, I can forget this ever happened.”

Julian’t can’t do that. He can’t sit at this table acting like nothing’s happened. Acting like Braith wasn’t the one to kill his father. 

His arm aches, the echo of an injury long since healed rearing its head. “I can’t. You killed my father, I’m not going to ignore that.”

Braith shakes his head and misplaced pity settles in between the thick ridicule. “I didn’t kill Raymond, that was Celestine.”

Julian tightens his grip on his gun, his hands trembling. “You manipulated her. She didn’t love my father but she wouldn’t have done something like that.”

“At least you're aware of that.” Braith leans against the small table by the door and Julian shifts his aim to follow his head. “But you're still misdirecting your blame. I know it’s easier to blame me over Celestine, but you need to see the truth.”

“That is the truth!” Julian chokes out, frustration tearing through his voice. He’s losing his grip on his anger, it slipping out of his grasp and unraving into something burning. “You pushed her to act!”

“I can’t say this enough, I didn’t force her.” Something dark and cunning spreads across Braith’s face, poisonous and sickening. “Are you certain that it wasn’t you who drove her to that point?”

“No.” Julian’s voice is barely above a whisper, wavering and trembling. “I didn’t do anything.”

“And isn’t that the problem?” Cruel and wicked enjoyment dancing Braith’s gaze, his mouth pressing into a sharp and jagged smile. “You just stood by and _watched_.”

“No.” Julian can barely hear himself speak over the static in his head. “Stop it! Nothing you say will change anything!” Julian presses one hand to his head, his heart beat pounding beneath his skin.

Julian digs his hand further into his skin as Braith continues to speak, his voice gratingly smooth. “And by your logic, it could be said that you’re the one who killed Raymond.”

Julian’s blood runs cold and his hand falls from his head. His chest aches, something fragile cracking within him. His anger courses up through the fractured gaps, running over his skin. It is unbearably hot and uncomfortable. “I didn’t kill him.” His voice is a deadly whisper.

“Then neither did I.” Braith crosses his arms over his chest like this is wrapped up. Like he’s _won_.

But it’s far from over. Julian hasn't put a bullet into his skull yet.

“You did.” Julian’s anger pulses in his head, volatile and scorching. “And you’re going to pay for it.”

Before Braith can speak another word, Julian steadies his aim and pulls the trigger. 

Even with the suppressor, the sound still echoes through the room. Or maybe it’s just echoing through his head like a broken record, forever skipping over the same stretch of track. 

Julian lowers his gun, his anger burning out. It leaves behind an aching numbness that he doesn’t know if it’s any better. 

Braith lays slumped against the wall, blood and viscera coating it in a twisted array. A small hole rests in the center of his forehead, marred only by the thin lines of blood dripping down his face. His eyes are blown wide and glassy, forever unseeing. Julian should feel something.

He doesn’t.

He sets to work cleaning up the scene, stripping off the heavy jacket he wore and shoving the gloves into its pockets before slipping on a clean pair. He’s meticulously planned this part out, down to the last variable. It would be preferable to dispose of the body completely, but he doesn't have that kind of luxury. He’ll have to settle with cleaning up anything incriminating and reporting the crime himself.

It’ll put him in the spotlight but hopefully it’s only temporary. Blaze will corroborate his alibi and reporting the body will draw some suspicion away from him. And when he re-enters through the lobby, the cameras will clearly catch him. 

Julian cleans off any blood from his face and neck and steps out through the window. He shuts the window behind him and drops down to the ground. He strips off the thin latex gloves and places them with the other pair. He walks down a few blocks before turning into an alley. He throws the jacket away before tucking his gun behind a loose brick. By the time the police get anywhere near here, the jacket should be gone and his scent washed away. 

He returns to the apartment complex and climbs up the stairs to Braith’s building. For authenticity’s sake, he knocks on the door before opening it. He properly works his expression into one of shock and calls the police.

——

It takes the police all of three minutes to slap cuffs onto Julian’s wrists. Morgan hefts him up, tightening the cuffs against Julian’s wrists. He doesn’t quite know what happened, something with a witness saying he walked out of the alley, but he knows he messed up.

Morgan drags him though the lobby, reciting his rights. Unfortunately, Julian already knows them. Blaze has the foresight to have all members of Golden Dawn memorize them for this exact situation. It’s to their benefit for them to understand exactly what they can and cannot do. 

Julian stumbles into the police car, Morgan all but shoving him into it. Morgan walks around the side and steps into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. He turns on the car but doesn’t shift it out of park. He looks up to the rearview mirror, meeting Julian's gaze. His eyes are an icy blue, piercing and harsh. “You Levines are all the same. Getting into more trouble than you’re worth.”

Julian doesn’t know which Levine Morgan’s grouping him with. He knows he shouldn’t say anything, but the question burns in his mouth. “Which Levine?”

Morgan narrows his eyes, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “Your father, Lucien Levine.”

All the air is squeezed out from his lungs. Lucien? His father isn’t Lucien. He hasn’t even seen his uncle in years. Not since he almost killed himself trying to steal highly experimental medicine. “Lucien isn’t my father.” Julian’s voice is small and cracking.

The doubt is clear on Morgan’s face. “Are you sure?”

The problem is Julian couldn’t answer that.

Morgan looks away from the rearview mirror and shifts the car into drive. He peels out of the parking lot and Julian watches the streets blur pass. He wonders if Blaze can even get him out of this.

He wonders if Blaze would even care to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	26. concussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Powers AU. Ian thought Julian was done with the worst. It seems that he forgot about the concussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final installation of my powerless series. I really enjoy this piece; it combines everything like enjoy writing and it's a particularly good ending to this series. It has some of my favorite pieces of dialogue I've written.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: vomit, character death mention

Ian awakes to the fractured light streaming in through the blinds, cutting his living room into broken squares. His breath rattles in his chest and yesterday’s events come back to him in broken pieces. He almost killed himself in a collapsing building trying to save Julian.

He glances over to the couch. Julian’s still laying there, shifting slightly in his sleep. A light flush paints his cheeks and dark circles mar the skin beneath his eyes. Despite Ian’s best efforts, Julian still came down with some infection. 

Although Ian has to say that this was expected. Julian’s been running around with an exposed bullet wound for who knows how long, it was inevitable that he’d get sick from it. Ian can only hope that it isn’t too serious. There’s a significant lack of necessary medical supplies in his house if that’s the case.

Ian sits up from the chair, his muscles aching and strained from the ergonomically incorrect position. He drapes the blanket over the side of his chair and walks over to Julian. Ian crouches before Julian, who barely shifts at the sound of Ian’s movement. Ian presses the back of his hand against Julian’s face.

Julian’s skin is clammy and warm, although not alarmingly so. It should be something he can fight off, as long as it doesn’t worsen.

Julian cracks his eyes open, only revealing thin slits of grey. “Ian?” His voice twists, confusion and thinly veiled panic resting in it. “What’s happening?” His words are less slurred but the French accent hasn't disappeared. In fact, it’s stronger now.

“Nothing’s happened. You’re safe.” Ian removes his hand, leaning back to give Julian some space. Seeing Ian right as he woke up wasn’t the best idea now that Ian thinks about. Ian could’ve just as easily been trying to restrain Julian.

Julian glances around the room, eyes unfocused and glassy. His gaze returns to Ian’s, lethargic and muddled. “Where are we?” He asks the question hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure he should be asking it. 

“My apartment.” Ian brushes his fingers against Julian’s wrist, drawing his attention towards Ian. “Hey, I need you to look over here.”

Julian shifts to look at him, lips pressed together into a frown. “Is something wrong?”

Ian watches Julian pupils darting over Ian’s face, luckily both the same size. “I just wanted to check your pupil sizes.” Ian leans back on his heels, removing his hand from Julian’s wrist. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t—” Julian lurches forward. Ian reaches out to steady him only to be shoved into the edge of the coffee table. Pain bursts in spindles across his back. Julian scrambles across the room, unsteady and disoriented. 

“Julian!” Ian rushes after Julian, following him to the kitchen.

Julian’s leaning over the trash can, heaving. Ian kneels beside Julian and rubs disjointed circles on his back. He’s trembling beneath Ian’s touch, his knuckles paper white. He shifts back, pressing his head against the metal rim. “I’m sorry.” He mutters the words, breathless and thin.

Ian clears his voice from every drop of panic he’s most certainly feeling. “It’s fine. You couldn’t help it.”

Julian huffs, a bitter, self deprecating laugh escaping past his lips. “I have a feeling this was self-inflicted.” 

Ian picks his words carefully, weaving a fragile, delicate tapestry. “How much do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces.” Julian peels himself away from the trash can, rubbing a hand at his mouth. “I think a building collapsed on me?”

“It was a little more than that.” Ian tries to inject a little mirth into his voice, it falling flat. Julian looks over Ian’s shoulder and he follows his gaze. The pieces click together. “Do you want to go back to the couch?”

Julian swallows, the frustration written clearly across his face. He clenches his jaw, the muscles in his jaw working. “Yeah.” Julian drops his gaze to his lap, his fingers twisting together. His voice is quiet and drawn thin. “I think I need some assistance.”

“Alright.” Ian doesn’t remark on Julian's inability to support himself, filing it away for later consideration. He couldn’t place whether this weakness was from Julian’s infection or the possibility of a concussion.

Ian winds his arm around Julian’s waist, hefting him up onto his feet. Julian grips Ian’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the fabric of Ian’s jacket. Julian hisses, leaning heavily into Ian’s side. “Are you okay?” Ian asks, shifting his grip to better support Julian. 

“Let’s just go.” Julian forces out instead of answering the question, his face pale and beaded with sweat.

Ian starts to walk over to the living room, painstakingly dragging Julian through each step. The one time that Ian stopped, Julian set him a withering glare, dulled by the exhaustion weighing on his expression. 

Ian places Julian on the couch, the strings creaking under their weight. Julian leans back, dragging a hand over his face. Ian hovers awkwardly beside him, just far enough so they wouldn’t be touching. 

Ian grabs a glass of water from his kitchen and hands it to Julian. Julian doesn’t withdraw his hand over his eyes to grab the glass. He drinks some before holding it out for Ian to take. Ian grabs it and places it on top of a coaster on the coffee table. 

Julian removes his hand from over his eyes and grimaces, glancing over to Ian without shifting his head. “Can you make a call for me?”

“I can.” Ian says slowly, unable to stop the confusion from bleeding into his voice. “But couldn’t you do it yourself?”

Julian shakes his head before squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t think I could keep up a coherent conversation with Blaze.” Julian licks his lips, barely biting back a hiss. “The moment he hears my accent, he’ll know something's wrong. And that’ll worry him more than anything.”

“Who’s Blaze?” Ian only recognizes it from vague passing. Morgan might’ve mentioned it at one point. “And can you be certain he’ll pick up?”

“My brother.” A fragile and unguarded smile tugs at Julian’s lips, the closest to anything real Ian’s seen from him. “And don’t worry, he’ll pick up. He’s seen my face all over the news too.”

Ian reaches over to the table and picks up his phone, unlocking it and holding it out to Julian. Julian holds it gingerly and inputs the number. It takes him a bit and Ian tries not to watch him fumble with the buttons.

The moment Julian hands back Ian his phone, he turns it to the speaker. Julian gaze darts between the phone and Ian, the dial tone ringing out between them. Ian just puts a finger to his lips. He understands exactly how hard it is to be unable to contact your sibling. 

The phone clicks as Blaze picks up. “Blaze Galloway, whom am I speaking to?” Blaze’s voice is clear, and younger than Ian expected. He’s maybe a few years older than Julian. The echo of another voice is heard through the background. 

“Ian Riley.” Ian provides, preparing for the response that his name will elicit. Even if Ian suspicions that Blaze is part of Golden Dawn aren’t true, the name of a police officer when your brother is a wanted man will not be something you want to hear. “Don’t—”

“How did you get this number?” Blaze’s voice is clipped and chilling to the point it’s biting. The voice in the background has silenced. 

“Julian gave it to me.” Ian keeps his voice level, trying to maintain some control of the call. He doubts that he’ll be successful. “He asked me to call you.”

“And where is he now?” Blaze asks. “Why can’t he talk to me himself?”

Ian glances over to Julian, hoping for him to give Ian some form of assistance. Julian nods ever so slightly. Ian turns back to the phone. “I’ll give the phone to him, ask him yourself.”

Ian tilted the phone towards Julian. Julian clears his throat. “Hi Blaze.” He tries to flatten out his accent, pronouncing his words slowly. It’s wholly unsuccessful.

“Julian.” Blaze sighs, his voice softer and dulled. Relief rests heavily in his words. “You’re hurt, aren’t you?”

The shaky grin on Julian’s face falters, cracking in places. “Yeah, a little.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to call me?” Concern breaks over Blaze’s voice, tangible and obvious.

“I didn’t want you to worry.” Julian shakes his head. Self-deprecation flickers on his face. “But that didn’t seem to do any good.”

“Of course I’m worried. What kind of person would I be if I wasn't?” Blaze’s tone suggests that the question was rhetorical. “Hand the phone back to Ian and we’ll get everything figured out. I’ll be over soon.”

“You don’t have to do that. He’s taken good care of me.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it. Now give the phone back to him.” Exasperation dusts the relief in Blaze’s voice.

Julian gestures with his head and Ian brings the phone back to him. “Blaze, what do you want?” Ian asks the question, unable to figure what else to say.

“Can you give me your address?” There’s almost hesitation in Blaze’s voice, shadowed only by concern and determination.

“I’ll send it to you. How long do you think it’ll take you to get here?”

“You’re still in Cervyne, right?”

“Yes.”

“Probably an hour at most.” Something shuffles on the other end of the line, static breaking over the call. A moment later, Blaze’s voice returns, softer and oddly fragile. “Ian, thank you.”

A smile fights it’s way onto Ian’s face. “It’s nothing.” He draws in a breath, holding it in before releasing it. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“See you then.” Blaze ends the call, the sound shutting off to the silence in Ian’s apartment.

Ian quickly sends Blaze his address before setting his phone down on the table and turning to Julian. The smile is still on his face, but it’s melancholy and desperate. Ian watches, unsure how to broach the silence between them without the distraction of action between them.

“I don’t deserve Blaze.” Julian eventually says, cutting through the silence with broken words. “He’s too good of a brother for me.”

“Blaze wouldn’t like to hear you say that.” Ian may not know Blaze for that long but the care he has for Julian is palpable. “He cares for you.”

“That’s the problem. His care could be put to better use.” Julian shifts his gaze so he’s no longer looking at Ian. It falls over Ian’s shoulder at the long hallway leading out of the apartment.

“You don’t get to choose your siblings. You just have to deal with them, mistakes and everything.” Ian couldn’t stop the images of Claire’s body from flashing in his mind. Sometimes they have to pay for your mistakes.

Julian pales and Ian quickly realizes his misstep. He shouldn’t have brought up anything remotely related to Claire. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that.” Ian bites out, far harsher than he intended but at the same time far too kind. “You don’t have the right to say that.”

“But I am.” Julian swallows, his hands trembling in his lap. “I couldn’t imagine losing someone I love.”

Ian can’t control the anger boiling within him, spilling over and burning everything it touches. “Of course you can’t. You only tear them away.”

Julian clenches his teeth together, eyes narrowed and turning with a dangerous light. He’s finally meeting Ian’s gaze. “I might’ve lied about a lot of things, but I didn’t lie about that. I didn’t kill Claire.”

Ian doesn't believe him for a second. He said it himself, he’s a liar. It’s easy to spin a tale that’s sweeter than reality. “But you’ve gotten yourself out of being a killer before. How can I be sure you're not just trying to save your own skin?”

“Would I still be here if I was guilty?” Julian drags up walls of steel and control, schooling his expression into something unrecognizably cold. 

“You’re still here because you can’t walk on your own.” Ian doesn't like how the words sting as he says them, getting caught in his throat and tearing into his skin. There’s a wrongness to them, as if he can’t believe he’s the one saying them.

Julian leans back, defeat written over his expression. He can’t refute that and he knows it. “Believe me or not, I don’t care. Just make up your mind.”

“What do you mean?” Ian’s voice is unsteadier than he’d like. 

“One moment you’re helping me call Blaze and the next you’re accusing me.” Bitterness cut by the age old weary tiredness of someone fighting for far too long rests in Julian’s voice. “If you’re so convinced that I’m Claire’s killer, why did you save me?”

Why did he save Julian? That was the question echoing in Ian’s mind the moment he dragged Julian out of the freezing waters that sullen night over a week ago. He still doesn't have an answer. 

It would be easy to say that he only wanted Julian to face the punishment he rightfully deserves, something he couldn’t do in death. But that wouldn’t be quite right. He would’ve brought Julian to a hospital instead of his apartment to painstakingly patch up his wounds. There is no logic to his motives.

Other than that sickening, twisting feeling in his chest that Julian’s _right_. 

“I don’t know.” Ian utters, unable to convey the mess of emotions in his head. They’re disjointed pieces of something that isn’t meant to fit together. “But I trust you.” The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them. It’s only now he realizes that they’re true.

Julian’s eyes widened, the shock painted bright in them. “What do you mean you trust me?”

“That you’re not Claire’s killer.” Ian leans back, no longer wanting to look at Julian. He doesn't want to see the expression that he’s making. “I wanted someone to blame and you were convenient.”

Julian’s silent and it’s intolerable. He’s torn between needing to know exactly how Julian feels and the blessing ignorance of looking away. He’s a coward and won’t drag his gaze upwards. “I’m sorry.”

Cold fingers cup his cheeks. Ian let’s them guide his gaze towards Julian, expecting anger or something more bitter. He doesn’t expect the disbelief that’s there. Julian rubs his thumb down Ian’s cheek bone, the touch careful and feather light. Ian doesn’t push him away. 

Julian leans forward and from this close Ian can see the starburst of freckles across his cheeks. Julian presses his lips against Ian’s and Ian’s mind stops. 

This was unexpected but in no way unwanted. It takes Ian a shuttering moment to remember that he should be kissing Julian back or he’s going to pull away. He runs a hand through Julian hair, the strands soft in his grasp. 

They part far too soon. Julian leans just enough for Ian to make out the silly smile on his face, unadulterated elation clear in his expression. Ian can’t imagine his face looking any different. “I’ve been waiting so long to do that.” Julian says, sliding closer so he can wrap and arm around Ian’s waist.

“You won’t have to wait as long for the next one, don’t worry.” Ian practically has Julian in his lap, legs intertwined together. 

Julian laughs, the sound bubbling up in the room. It’s far more pleasant than the cruel condescending laugh Ian’s heard before. “I won’t.”

Ian brushes some of the strand of Julian’s hair out of his face, taking in the beauty of his eyes. From this close, he can see the faint shards of blue that flicker in the grey. Ian presses his lips to Julian’s and nothing else matters.

——

A knocking on his door startles Ian out of sleep. He glances to the clock, trying to make sense of how much time passed. Julian can’t stay asleep too long if he has a concussion and Ian has no medical knowledge to assess whether he does or not.

But it’s barely been thirty minutes. 

Ian carefully unwinds himself from Julian’s arms, running a hand through his hair and straightening his clothes. They’re folded beyond belief but there’s not much Ian can do about it now. Not when someone tries to pound down his door.

Ian opens the door. A person, presumably Blaze, stands there, a few centimeters taller than Ian much to his chagrin. Blaze’s hair is a golden blond with the barest hints of a reddish undertone and his eyes are the exact same piercing shade of grey as Julian’s. Blaze smiles, an odd teasing edge to it. “So you’re the one Julian chose.”

“Wh-what?” Ian sputters out, heat crawling up his face. He usually has a better grip on his emotions but Blaze’s question shattered his control.

Blaze’s grin sharpens and, yes, he’s teasing Ian moments after meeting him. “He could’ve done worse, I suppose.” He steps past Ian, gaze settling over Ian’s apartment as he walks. “But anyone willing to patch him up meets my expectations.”

Ian shuts the door, trying to make sense of the man that just walked in. It’s quite fruitless. “Thank you?”

“Don’t worry, it’s a compliment.” Blaze’s expression softens when he spots Julian on the couch. He gently runs a hand over Julian’s forehead, frowning minutely. But he straightens up and turns back to Ian. There’s a bite in his voice and a jagged edge in his gaze. “But where are my manners. I’m Blaze, Julian’s brother and leader of Golden Dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell you how long I was waiting to write the kiss between Julian and Ian. The funny thing is that I haven't written a kiss between them in my canon series yet. 
> 
> (If I can find the time, I'll draw it)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	27. power outage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child that Lucien barely recognizes knocks on his door, bringing memories he doesn't want to remember. (AU where Fleur dropped Harvey off with Lucien when Harvey was ten)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing much I can say about this one. I'm pretty ambivalent about it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: child abandonment

A knocking on his door startles Lucien out of his work, the sound tentative and muffled. Lucien places his pencil down, shuffling work into a neat pile. He places some of the more inconspicuous papers on top. Morgan’s been taken to visiting him at inopportune times to inquire about his work. The less that Lucien gives to the Oligarchy the better. 

Lucien stands and makes his way to the door, straightening his clothes and hair into something more presentable. He opens the door and is greeted with a child.

A boy, barely ten, stands on his doorstep. He’s dressed in the threadbare remains of a baggy shirt and pants, his hair a tousled mess of a shade of brown that’s too familiar for Lucien’s liking. 

“Are you Mister Lucien, sir?” The boy asks, stuttering through his words. In his hand is a crumpled piece of paper. 

“You are speaking to him.” Lucien tries to keep his voice flat, edging on friendly. “What’s wrong?”

“My name is Harvey.” The boy holds out the paper, his hands trembling. He coughs quietly. “And my mom told me to give this to you.”

Lucien takes the paper from Harvey’s grasp, stepping back into his house. He gestures to Harvey. “Come in for a moment while I read it.” Lucien steps further into the build, flicking on the light to the kitchen. “Do you want anything to eat? Or drink?”

Harvey shuts the door behind him, shuffling into the foyer. He threads his fingers together in front of him. He bites his lips, eyes tracing the rooms with wonder. “Do you have some juice?”

It’s been too long since Lucien’s bought anything like that but he might have some from the times he was saddled with the responsibility of watching Cassidy’s son. In the back corners of his pantry sits some small boxes of apple juice. He grabs one and a glass. He fills the glass with ice and juice before walking back to the foyer. Harvey is still standing there, his hands still clasped together and his eyes wide with wonder.

At the sound of Lucien’s footsteps, Harvey looks over to him. “Sir.” He says, the respect muffled by shock. “Your house is really big.”

Now Lucien acknowledges that his house is larger than the average person’s but he never considered it that large. “If you say so.” Lucien hands Harvey the juice, making sure the boy’s grip is secure before he removes his hand. “It’s a little warm. I hope you don’t mind.”

Harvey shakes his head. “It’s fine!” He takes a sip, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” Lucien finds himself saying automatically. “Let’s sit in the dining room while I read the note.”

Harvey nods and Lucien guides him into the dining room to the right. Harvey climbs into the closest seat. Before he could put his glass down, Lucien slid a coaster beneath it. Harvey blinks at but doesn’t say anything.

Satisfied that Harvey is sufficiently occupied, Lucien sits across from him and unfolds the note. The paper is worn and the creases are soft as if someone repeatedly folded the paper. 

_Lucien Levine, the Calethyian Royal Scientist,_

_I would not be asking this of you if there were no other options for me. I doubt you remember me but it is impossible for me to forget you. It was one single moment in our lives that changed everything but I wouldn’t give it up for the world. Meeting you is how I got Harvey after all.  
And I could say meeting you again is how I’ll lose him. _

_I should’ve known that you were Calethyian nobility from the moment I heard your voice. It’s more refined that any Calethyian accent I’ve heard before. It used to bring me great anger and shame; how was I so unlucky to meet a pretentious man that’s never met hardship in his life? But I quickly realized how much of an asset you could be._

_Lucien, I’m going to be honest here. I resented you and still may resent you but I need to ask a favor of you. I need you to take in Harvey. If you haven’t already figured it out, and I’m sure you have, Harvey is your son._

_He deserves a life that I cannot give him but I know you can. He doesn’t deserve to live a life wondering when his next meal will come or if it will come at all._

_Don’t come looking for me. By the time Harvey reaches your door, I'll be long gone. You may not care for me but I hope that you can find it in yourself to care for your child._

_Fleur_

Lucien can barely stop himself from crumbling the fragile paper in his grasp. He’s had another son this entire time. He had a child while he was busy destroying himself with his impossible research.

He didn’t see the resemblance before, but he can see it now. Harvey has Fleur’s eyes. Even after ten years, he couldn’t forget the hazel that shifted in the light. 

Lucien swallows, carefully folding the note and placing it in his pocket. There’s no easy way for him to tell Harvey of this. “Harvey.” Lucien starts, a hesitation that Harvey can most certainly pick up on coating his voice. Harvey looks up with careful curiosity. “You’re going to be staying with me for a bit.”

It’ll be longer than a bit, but Lucien can’t bring himself to tell Harvey that. Not yet.

“I’ll be staying here?” Harvey leans in closer, eyes wide. But his lips turn down into a frown. “But what about my mom? Where is she?”

“She’s not going to be here with us.” Lucien tries to choose his words carefully. He’s never been particularly versed with tact; he prefers honesty to pleasant white lies. It’s why he’s never been partial to politics.

But he can’t outright tell Harvey that his mother has essentially abandoned him here with Lucien. He’s not that cruel.

“What do you mean?” Harvey's voice drips confusion and a distant emotion reminiscent of panic. “Where is my mom?!”

“She’s not here now. But you’ll get to see here again.” Lucien despises the lies resting bitter on his tongue. He can only hope that Fleur isn’t desperate enough to leave Harvey behind completely. 

Lucien doesn’t know if he’s suited for raising a child.

“No! I don’t want to be here if my mom isn’t here!” Harvey stands from the table, shoving the chair back as much as his small body would allow. His magic crackles across his skin, unrestraint and ravenous. The lights flicker above them.

“Harvey.” Lucien tries, unsure what to say. While he wasn’t ill equipped to handle the magic, he didn’t know how to do so without restraints or suppressants. His father just left him to his own devices when his magic became too much for his own skin, when the magic inside of him grew so large it _burned_.

If he didn’t learn how to wrangle his magic into something meek and tamed, he would’ve been devoured. Harvey’s never had anyone to help him and if he has even a fraction of Lucien power, he’ll need it. 

“Go away! I don’t want to stay with you!” Harvey shoves Lucien’s hand away from him, his magic sparking at the contact. Harvey flinches away. He turns on his heel and storms off into the house. 

Lucien first locks the doors with his magic signature, pressing a single button to engage the lock. It’s unreasonably cruel to keep Harvey here but he can’t have him running through the streets. Fleur trusted him. He’s not going to let Harvey leave his residence.

He takes off in the direction Harvey ran off, glancing down halls and into rooms. The lights are still flicking overhead and the metallic taste of magic is sharp against his tongue. The lock stops Harvey from entering his office or any other place with potentially dangerous objects, but there’s still numerous places he could’ve slipped into. 

Lucien checks the kitchen first. The pantry is empty and the cabinets are bare. Luckily the knives are still in their block on the counter. Harvey would have minimal knowledge at best about how to use it but that doesn’t mean he still won’t be dangerous. 

The moment Lucien steps into the living room, the lights shutter off. He frowns. The lights should be able to withstand this level of magic pressure. He designed them with this in mind. He couldn’t go blowing out his lights at every accidental flicker of magic, he’s had enough experience with that already. 

But the raw, untamed magic of a child is fundamentally different from the methodological control of his. The immense, sudden pressure of an outburst of Harvey’s magic could’ve overwhelmed the system. He’ll have to readjust for this. 

Lucien’s head snaps up to the sound of a whimper. The door to a small linen closet in the hallway in slightly ajar. The dark color of Harvey’s magic glows in the low light. 

He opens the door with care. Harvey sits huddled in a pile of fallen towels, trembling. His eyes are wide and unshed tears pool in them. “Lucien.” He says, his voice cracking with broken sobs. “I’m scared.”

“I know.” Lucien steps inside, crouching down so he doesn’t tower over Harvey. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I want my mom!” Harvey rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, digging his other one into the fabric of his pants. “Why can’t she be here with us?!”

“It’s complicated.” Lucien settles on something vague to describe the situation. He holds his arms out, letting a wary smile onto his face. “I’m sorry.”

Harvey’s face pinches together. He scrambles forward and wraps his arms around Lucien’s waist. “I miss her!”

Lucien wraps one arm around Harvey’s shoulders and the other threading through his hair. “It’s okay to miss her.”

Harvey presses his face into Lucien’s chest, his fingers digging into Lucien’s shirt. “Why doesn’t she want me?” Harvey’s voice is small and quiet, still trembling.

“She desperately wants you.” Lucien rubs circles on Harvey’s back, slow and large.

“But she left me here.” Harvey chokes out, broken and fractured. 

“It may be hard to understand but she did that because she loves you. You just have to remember that.” Lucien keeps his voice low and soothing. 

Harvey’s silent, his heaving breaths cutting through the closet. His magic calms beneath Lucien’s touch, steadying to something easier to control. Harvey looks up, his eyes still flecked with the remains of his magic. “Why did my mom give me to you?”

“I met her a long time ago.” Lucien starts, hesitant and reluctant. The lights flicker back on before he can continue. “But that’s a story for another time. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Harvey nods and unwinds his arms. Lucien guides him out the closet with a steady hand on his shoulder.

Maybe he’ll be better at this than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	28. accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien’s finally gotten his hands on something he’s felt like he’s known his entire life. And then it all comes crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first installation of a three part series I wrote as a continuation of the piece lost. While it is not necessary to have read that piece, it does provide some insight to the story. These three pieces are the only pieces that should be read in order.
> 
> These pieces also are when I start my possible unnecessary word building and science. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: blood, hospitals

Lucien is thirty-two and finally conducting the research he feels like he should’ve conducted a lifetime ago. He wraps a bandage around his right arm, securing it with a small clip. He found that despite the difficulties of locating a vein in his forearm, it wasn’t a noticeable hindrance if he took it from there rather than at his elbow. Having to wrap bandages around his elbow limited his movements. It was too much of an inconvenience to continue drawing blood from there. 

He pulls his dark shirt and lab coat over the bandages, with them already beading with small circles of blood. Before him sits rows of vials filled with the ruby liquid, still glimmering with traces of his magic. He carefully adds a bit of anticoagulant to each sample, swirling each vial until he’s certain it’s thoroughly integrated. 

He can’t afford to lose these samples. As is, he’s already drawing too much blood, he has to lean against the counter with his hip to steady himself, and losing even one vial would be detrimental. His magic, and in turn his blood, is the most ideal candidate for testing decay. It’s volatile nature makes it fairly susceptible to the decay. If any solution was effective with his magic, it should be more than enough for any other person.

He snaps on a pair of gloves and ignores how his vision blurs on the edges as he pushes away from the counter. He gives himself a moment to steady before walking across the lab to retrieve today’s sample of decay. He cloned some wing samples the night prior and let them set in a closed fume hood to decay. To be safe, he coated the glass with a thin layer of magic. 

He dispels this magic with a flick of his wrist, letting it disperse harmlessly into the atmosphere. He couldn’t risk reabsorbing any contamination. He saw how Alden and Cassidy would reuse any magic used in a suspension, essentially introducing decay into their bodies. He couldn’t believe their oversight.

But he couldn’t fault them either. They had no idea that they could be contaminated by the decay. 

He dons a mask and opens the fume hood. The decay sits in a small petri dish, a muted grey color that appears to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He quickly covers the decay and removes it from the fume hood. He shuts the hood and brings the sample to the counter. He carefully removes the top and transfers it to a large flask. 

For a moment he considers just washing the residual decay from the dish, in this amount the decay is diluted by water, but back tracks. He grabs a clean pipet and removes a small amount of blood from the first vial. He drops it into the petri dish and covers it.

The blood bubbles against the decay and he places it to the side. He hasn’t created a control group recently, the last one was a few months ago. It shouldn’t have changed but it’s always beneficial to ensure that it’s a constant. 

He lets the blood sit, mentally timing how long it takes for the blood to be completely corrupted. He opens the small refrigerated shelf to the right of his lab table, grabbing two of the vials. He grabs a beaker and thin glass rod and places the items on the counter.

He goes to draw some liquid from the first vial when a knocking on his door jolts him out of his work. 

He steps away from the counter, pulling down his mask. He opens the door to find Dorian standing there, his small hand raised up against the wood. Lucien frowns. How could Braith or Cyrus think it was a good idea to send a child to fetch him from his lab?

Lucien pulls off his mask and strips off his gloves. He drops them in the nearby waste bin and steps out into the hall. He shuts the door behind him, cutting off Dorian’s view of the lab. Dorian watches the whole thing, silent and eyes widen with a childish wonder.

“Dorian.” Lucien says, drawing the child’s attention back to him. “Why are you here?”

“Lord Lucien.” Dorian addresses Lucien with as much respect a seven-year-old could muster. “Father and Lord Braith called for you.”

Lucien suppresses the sigh, knowing that it would be pointless to impart his emotions on Dorian. “Did they say why, by chance?”

Dorian’s face pinches in thought. “I don’t think so. They did say it was important.”

Not important enough to call for him themselves though. But Lucien just shoves his hands into his pockets and gestures forward with his head. “Lead the way.”

Dorian nods and takes off down the hall. Lucien keeps up with ease. Dorian leads Lucien through the halls Lucien’s known his entire life. They stop in front of the large conference room, the doors slightly ajar. Lucien can hear the faint murmur of Braith and Cyrus’s voices. 

“Thank you Dorian.” Lucien turns to Dorian, crouching so that he’s level with the child. “Do you have anyone to play with while I talk with Braith and your father?”

Dorian nods, glancing down the hall. “Blaze, Asa, and Keiran are here. But Keiran doesn’t like to play.”

Reid’s here as well. Lucien didn’t expect that. “Then go and play with Blaze and Asa. Keiran will turn around eventually.”

Dorian frowns like he doesn’t believe Lucien but he doesn’t mention it. “Okay.” He takes a few steps back and waves at Lucien. “Bye, Lord Lucien!”

Lucien couldn’t help the smile tugging on his lips. “Goodbye Dorian.”

Dorian runs off and Lucien turns to the conference. There’s no doubt that Braith and Cyrus heard him. He steps into the room, pushing the doors open. Braith sits at the head on the table across the room. Cyrus and Reid flank him in the chairs before him. 

Lucien stands on the other end, letting his magic unfurl. He’s certain that they can sense the fragile patterns it creates. “You called for me?”

Braith grins, thin and cunning. “I need your opinion on a recommendation.” Braith gestures to Reid as if there was anyone else here needing to be considered for the Oligarchy. “Reid Galloway requested to join the Thervin.”

Reid shifts as Lucien’s gaze lands on him. There is no explanation in Reid’s expression. Lucien speaks when the silence becomes unbearable. “Why do you want my opinion?”

“Out of everyone here, I feel that you know him the best.” Braith says, his voice purposely open and innocent. He is testing Lucien. 

Lucien could allow Reid into the Oligarchy and break their rule that leaders of Thieves Guilds are not to be granted a seat on the Oligarchy. Not that there’s any proof that Reid’s the leader of Golden Dawn, but Braith is highly suspicious.

Or he could deny Reid. It’ll deal with this problem easily and get Braith off his case. But when has he made things easier for Braith?

“Considering that you’ve let him get this far, you acknowledge his potential as a member of the Thervin.” Lucien picks his words carefully, turning the situation against Braith. It's easy to make it appear that he’s just following Braith’s lead. “His knowledge would be beneficial.”

Braith moves to speak again but Lucien ignores him. Something brushed against his sense. It’s terribly cold and chills his skin. It pricks uncomfortably against his spine as if it’s a warning. 

The magic turns shockingly hot and nauseatingly familiar. The bitter taste of decay assaults his sense and leans into the table. It takes him a moment too long for him to realize Braith’s stopped speaking.

“Lucien,” Reid’s voice is full of concern. Lucien watches him stand through narrowed eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Lucien straightens up, pressing his hands into fists at his sides. He noticed Morgan wasn’t here but he didn’t think they were _idiotic_ enough to send him pilfering through Lucien’s lab. “But I need to leave.”

Braith narrows his eyes but it doesn’t hide the cruel satisfaction. “We’re not done.”

“ _I’m_ done.” Lucien can’t force himself to be respectful. Morgan’s messing with his lab. Who knows what he could hurt himself with. “I’ve given you my verdict. If your so incompetent that you can’t figure it yourself with that, then I’m surprised you’ve functioned this long.”

Lucien knows he’s going to pay for that comment but he can’t bring himself to care. Braith’s magic flickers, cutting through the bitter decay that floods Lucien’s sense. “Lucien.” Braith says his name like a warning.

“Lord Braith.” Lucien nods in faux respect. “Thank you for your time but I’d best be going.”

With that, Lucien turns around and leaves, practically slamming the doors when he shuts them. He strides down the halls, trying to restrain his magic. It would be detrimental if he introduced his already volatile magic into this situation. 

The door to his lab is open and the bitter taste of decay hits him in full force. It’s mixed with the distinct flare of Morgan’s magic. The scene inside is worse than Lucien anticipated.

Morgan’s leaning against the counter, one arm pressed into the dark material and other hidden from view. Blood and _decay_ lay spilt over the surface. Morgan turns at the sound of Lucien’s steps and gritted sigh. Lucien’s blood runs cold.

Decay stains Morgan’s skin. It runs across his forearm, dripping onto the floor. Pain draws tears to Morgan’s eyes. “ _Lucien_.” Morgan forces out, his voice weaved with pain and fear. 

Lucien rushes forward, grabbing the first pair of gloves he finds. He grabs Morgan’s wrist, trying his best to not touch the decay. It’s safer to handle it with gloves on but they’re not fool proof. He drags over a bin and scraps off the decay. It’s already coagulated with magic.

Morgan whimpers as Lucien roughly rubs the decay off his skin. It’s like removing debris from a burn: a painful but necessary procedure. There’s no words Lucien can say to comfort Morgan. 

The moment the majority of the decay is scrapped off—Morgan’s skin is _still_ stained with that sickly grey—Lucien drags him over to the sink. He runs the limb under the water and finds himself muttering: “You’re going to be okay.” over and over again.

As if he’s trying to convince himself of the fact.

Lucien startles out of his vigorous cleaning when Morgan slumps against him. “Morgan?” Lucien calls out, wrapping a hand around his waist to steady him. “You can’t fall asleep on me.” His voice is stained with a note of desperation.

“It hurts.” Morgan mumbles into Lucien’s shoulder, his voice weak and broken.

“I know.” Lucien awkwardly maneuvers Morgan away from the sink. He needs to get him to a hospital. They’ll have better equipment. “I _will_ help you.”

Morgan nods and falls limp in Lucien’s grasp as if Lucien’s words were permission to finally slip away. Lucien hastily wraps Morgan’s arm with bandages then strips off his gloves. He can’t risk spreading decay. 

He shuts and locks the door, slipping the only key into his pocket. He should’ve locked it before but he stupidly assumed no one would disturb it. He forgot that trust isn’t something that’s present here. Everything he does he has to fight for.

The moment Lucien opens the window on the other side of the hall, he jumps into the sky. Using magic around the decay was a necessary evil. At this point, as odd as it is to say, the decay should be stabilized with Morgan’s magic. There is still the risk of it spreading but it’s nowhere near the level of the concentrated specimens he has in his lab. 

Had in his lab.

He lands in front of the emergency room, stumbling through the doors. Every gaze in the room lands on him. They’re drinking in the sight of his disheveled attire. “I need a doctor.” He announces, his voice echoing over artificial silence of the emergency room.

A nurse breaks out of her shock, stepping out from behind the counter to take Morgan’s other arm. “What’s wrong?”

Lucien glances to the rest of the people hovering around. He couldn’t reveal decay to them. Everyone knew about it but in reference to the natural process of magic returning to the atmosphere after use. Not like this.

Lucien lowers his voice. “I’ll explain later.”

His words do nothing to quell the fear in the nurse’s eyes. But she doesn't question him. “Follow me. We’ll bring him to A1.”

Lucien nods and follows the nurse through the halls of the emergency room. Nurses and technicians pass them, staring a moment when they think he isn’t looking. Nothing they do to hide it matters when he can feel their magic heavy against his skin. 

The nurse stops before a large room, the single bed in the center dwarfed by the size. “Lay him here.” The nurse says, extracting herself to collect monitors and other equipment.

Lucien drapes Morgan over the bed, disliking how pale his skin is. He gently brushes some hair off of Morgan’s forehead. The nurse returns and starts stripping him of his shirt. Her hands hover the bandages Lucien shoddily wrapped. “What happened?”

“Be careful unwrapping them.” Lucien says instead of answering the question, unable to press the waver out of his voice. “It’s the remains of magic decay.” 

The nurse frowns but doesn't ask the question that is surely on her mind. She starts unwrapping the bandages and can’t stifle the gasp that passes through her lips.

The wound is worse than it was in the lab, the grey stain spreading further. At the epicenter, vibrant white runs in his veins in a spindly pattern. Lucien can sense the echo of Morgan’s magic between the suffocating decay. 

The moment the doctor steps in, Lucien turns to her. “I’m going to forewarn you, there’s little you’ll be able to do.” 

The doctor looks taken aback. She’s obviously not used to patients and their companions telling her what to do. “Lord Lucien.” She says carefully, her grip tightening against the clipboard in her hands. “I don’t mean to undermine your words, but I haven’t even looked Lord Morgan over yet.”

The jab at his lack of medical degree was subtle but still clear. If the circumstances were different, Lucien would have mentioned it. But now he just ignores it. “I’ve been working with decay for the past two years. I understand it’s effects better than anyone. Trust me when I speak.” Lucien looks over to Morgan, eyes tracing the wound on his arm. He steps forward, his magic crackling against his skin.

“What are you doing?” The doctor reaches to grab Lucien’s arm but a well placed glare sends her reeling back. 

“Containing the decay. Or we’re going to see everyone here sick.” He creates a suspension around Morgan’s arm, his vibrant green magic bright against the grey. The pressure of the decay dissipates. “If my magic starts to grey, alert me.”

“Wait.” The doctor steps between the door and Lucien. “Where are you going?”

“I need to find a cure for this.” Lucien steps past her. He needs to figure out exactly why his solutions aren’t working. Fortunately, there are two other people that could help him fix this.

Unfortunately he’s the one who’s imprisoned them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	29. emergency room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien’s forced to speak with Alden despite everything he’s done to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part 2 of this mini series! Please read part 1, chapter 28, for this to make more sense.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: self-harm, blood, drug use, hospital

Alden grins as Lucien walks into view, no doubt able to sense his signature the moment Lucien walked into the building. Suppressants can only do so much when stopping a person’s magic sense. Maybe after this whole mess is over he’ll devise a way to suppress even that aspect of one’s magic. 

“So who was it?” Alden asks, his voice curling with a cruel edge. A panel of glass separates them, a containment of sorts. They had no idea if the decay in Alden and Cassidy’s magic was contagious. “It couldn’t be you, or I doubt you’d be here to talk to me.”

Lucien glances over to the other cell a few paces beside Alden’s. The cells are far enough that conversing with any secrecy is near impossible. He gives Cassidy a small look just to acknowledge her presence. She still refuses to speak to him, her glare set sharp on him from the moment he walked in. She hasn’t forgiven him for separating her from her son.

Not that he could blame her, he understands the plight quite well, but she could manage it better when he happens to be the person trying to figure out how to cure them. 

Lucien narrows his eyes, reluctant to give Morgan’s name. But he doubts that Alden would comply if he doesn’t. “Morgan.”

“I would say you should know better, considering our experience,” Alden gestures to himself and the wall when Cassidy resides behind, the grin on his face sharpening. “But it’s clear that you didn’t.”

“Are you willing to help or not?” Lucien asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He hopes that Alden’s desire for interaction overrules his innate ability to be difficult. “I’m not going to stay here if you're only going to antagonize me.”

Alden’s expression flickers and becomes strained. The grin goes from something natural to something forced. “What is the problem?”

Lucien presses his expression flat, hiding the smile that wants to rise on it. Even Cassidy leans forward, desperate to learn more about their research. “Localize decay corruption via skin contact. It is currently contained although effectiveness is to be determined.” It’s easier to relay the facts if Lucien thinks of it clinically, as if it isn’t Morgan that he’s talking about.

Alden shifts, his expression sobering and a frown tugging at his lips. “Symptoms of the decay?”

“Discoloration of the skin, exhaustion and diminished magic,” Lucien says. “Presumably lowered EAM level but I didn’t have the equipment on hand to assess that.”

“Unless you can effectively contain the decay, there’s little you can do without a treatment.” Alden says, unable to hide the subtle rise of his voice. “Have you considered removing the infected limb?”

“No and that’s not a viable solution. There’s no guarantee that it hasn’t spread.” Lucien sighs, the bitter exasperation he’s feeling seeping into his voice. “I was expecting you to have more than that.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not the one with access to a laboratory so I doubt I could be of any more assistance here.” Alden leans back, faux innocence dusting his words.

Lucien’s desperate but he’s not that desperate. No matter the intentions, releasing Alden from his cell would be nothing but detrimental. “I’m not releasing you. We wouldn’t want to risk cross-contamination.”

He gives Alden a little hope of being released in an attempt to continue the conversation. Even if Lucien has to personally ensure it, Alden’s not leaving a cell for the rest of his life. 

Alden shrugs and stops short of rolling his eyes childishly. “Then there isn’t anything we could do. We didn’t focus on the stabilization of decay after all.” The jab was thinly veiled and pointed.

Lucien chooses to ignore him. He desperately needs their assistance if he’s going to figure this out but it’s pointless to be here if Alden’s going to be obstinate and Cassidy refuses to speak.

He could pick up where he left before all this occurred, testing medication upon medication on his blood mixed with varying levels of decay. Only that the decay that he has is contaminated with Morgan’s magic and his blood samples are split over the counters in his lab. He doesn’t think he has enough blood in him to draw more. As is, he’s already slightly unsteady on his feet. 

If Reid’s still at the Oligarchy, Lucien could ask him. His magic isn’t at quite the level as Lucien’s but it’s close enough. The less volatility might even prove useful. Morgan’s magic is more similar to Reid’s, so anything that works with his should work with Morgan’s.

Assuming that Lucien could get through the explanation about why he needs Reid’s blood quick enough to outweigh the risk of drawing more blood from himself. Reid’s intelligent enough to understand it but hasn’t been exposed in any context to Lucien's research. 

None of this would work and every minute he spends here is another minute Morgan may not _have_.

“You can try flooding the decay with magic.” Cassidy's voice breaks over the silence, scratchy and strained from disuse.

Lucien whips his head towards her, trying to hide the shock in his expression. It was something simple but effective that he had overlooked in his initial considerations. Using activants to counteract the decay would only be a short term solution, he doubts that it could fix the corruption that Alden and Cassidy suffer from, but it could help Morgan. His magic is still pure enough to counteract the decay. 

Lucien gives Cassidy a small, tentative smile. “Thank you.”

She nods slightly then looks away. Broken anger dances in her gaze but it’s replaced by a desperate longing. Lucien turns away before he has to acknowledge it. Lucien gives Alden a tight grin before leaving.

——

The door to his lab is still locked when he returns. He fumbles with the keys as he tries to unlock it, finding that his hands are shaking. He draws in a breath and focuses on stilling them. It isn’t successful.

He decides to ignore it. This is the least of his concerns. It’s mostly like from the adrenaline or left over magic coursing through his veins from his flight. 

The bitter taste of decay slams into his sense the moment he enters the room. In his haste to leave, he forgot to cover the decay he scrapped off Morgan’s arm. There’s minimal filtration from his lab to the outside air, a safety hazard in any other circumstance than his. The risk of decay seeping out of the room negates the risk of his poisoning himself.

He pulls on a pair of gloves and dons a mask. He’s been exposed enough as is, he can't continue risking his exposure. It would benefit no one if he corrupted himself in the process of trying to create a cure of it.

He doesn’t bother cleaning his blood from the counter. He just grabs the container of decay and moves to a clean space. He removes a small portion of the sample in a dish, the liquid now a thick mess of muted grey and bright blue. In the long term, using uncontaminated decay would be ideal but this will suit his needs for now. All he needs to do is cure Morgan. The generalization of his treatment can come after. 

He grabs the strongest activants he has from his refrigerator, the glass cold even through his gloves. He had a passing interest in creating stronger and more effective activants but it was dwarfed by the decay research that was thrust upon him. Occasionally he’ll mess with his formulas and these are the results.

Most activants are diluted for public use, just enough to force the activation of one’s wings or magic to test for a magic signature. Occasionally something stronger is used, but it’s nowhere near what he needs. 

He extracts a small portion from two of the vials and mixes them in a vial. One of them was a volatile and highly experimental mixture and the other was a far more stable but weaker solution. If he had the time, he’d sit down and try to predict the result. But he’ll have to trust that they’ll react as he’d like.

It’ll still be volatile but hopefully the weaker solution will be able to stabilize it some. 

He draws out a few milliliters of the activant and drops it into the decay. The response is instantaneous. In a perfect circle around the activant, the decay evaporates. All that’s left behind is the faint residue of pale blue magic branching out of the remaining activant. 

It works beautifully. Now all he needs to do is make sure it won’t kill Morgan when he uses it on him. 

He glances over to the other counter, frowning at the mess of blood and decay. The blood is dried and the decay is thick and gelatinous. He doesn’t have time to draw more blood and it would idiotic for him to try this activant on himself before trying it on living tissue. His death would be detrimental at this point.

He grabs another dish and rolls up his sleeve. The blood spotted bandage greets him, the previous bright red splotches dulled to a muted brown. He unwinds the wrap, taking care on any of the spots that stick. He grabs a knife from the sheath on his hip and poises it above an unmarred strip of his arm. Pale blue veins can barely be seen against the pallor of his skin. 

He digs the knife into his flesh. It hurts less than he anticipated and he’s quick to hold it over the dish. As soon as it’s filled to his needs, he presses a bit of gauze to the wound. Ruby blood stains the cloth quicker than it should. But, just like the tremors in his hands, he ignores it and rewraps it using the same banadanges.

As soon as it’s secure, he drags down his sleeve, wincing slightly, and removes more of the activant. He drops it into his blood. His magic crackles across his sense but nothing changes with blood. It doesn’t look like it’ll kill him.

But he has to find the amount that won’t kill Morgan when Lucien injects it into him. The only way to do that is to inject it into himself.

The thought doesn’t please him, but there’s no alternative. Not with the time restraints that he has. It’s this or estimating it with Morgan and he can’t accept that.

In a blank space on one of the many whiteboards dotting the room, Lucien sketches out the math to figure out how much he needs to inject himself with without dying. 

(Distantly, part of him feels like he’s written these exact equations before except with the intent to _kill_.)

It’s a messy string of numbers that takes far too long for him to decipher that determines the exact amount of the activant he should take. It is a warped formula used when calculating how much of a normal activant one should use that has too large of a margin of error for his taste. But he’ll use what he has. He doesn't have the time for alternatives. 

He pulls out a needle, stripping it of its protective sheath and sticking it into the activant. He removes three milliliters of the solution, once again rolls up his sleeve. He inserts the needle into the crook of his elbow, the soft flesh giving away to the sharp metal. He draws in a shaky breath, the cut on his arm throbbing. The red splotch bleeding through his bandage mocks him. 

He presses down on the stopper of the needle. 

Magic ignites inside of him, hot and devouring him. He tears the needle out of his skin, pressing his hand against his skin. It _burns_ and he can barely _breathe_.

But he forces air into his lungs, steadying his skyrocketing heart rate. It takes him a few moments, but he regains control of his magic, pressing it back into his body. It no longer fits quite right, trying to force itself past the boundaries of his skin. But he’s still alive and that’s all that matters. He’ll adjust his numbers for Morgan and everything will fix itself. 

It’s quicker this time to redo his equations for Morgan and significantly more accurate after using himself as a test subject. He used just a little too much on himself, not enough for it to be a concern but enough for him to be distracted by the constant battle with his magic. 

It was already obstinate, now it’s just unruly. 

The moment he finds the amount, he pours his activant to a transportable vessel and grabs an unused needle. He wipes down his knife and returns it to its sheath before removing his gloves and mask. He covers the decay this time and locks the door behind him when he leaves. The moment he steps into the hall, he activates his wings. They come to him with the barest of thoughts, coming with ease that he didn’t know was possible. 

After all this, he’ll need to investigate this brand of activants more. 

The flight to the hospital is quick and relatively painless, at this height there’s little reason for him to restrain his magic. But it only serves to make it harder for him to contain it when he lands.

He walks through the lobby, approaching the receptionist. The receptionist looks up from his computer, stiffening at the sight of Lucien. “Lord Lucien. How can I help you?” He does well at hiding his fear.

“I’m here to see Morgan. What room is he in?” Lucien extends his sense, looking for the trace of decay that’s infecting Morgan’s magic signature. 

The receptionist turns to his computer, tying a few things in. “Lord Morgan is in ICU room 3. Would you like me to show you to it?”

Lucien pinpoints Morgan’s magic signature, in a room on the second floor. “No, I’ll find my way.”

The receptionist bites his lip as if he wants to say more but decides against it. He watches as Lucien walks down the hall to the elevators and turns away when Lucien enters one. 

The ride takes far too long but there’s nothing Lucien can do to change it. Flying is discouraged in a hospital for obvious reasons but it doesn’t stop the flicker of irritation that bubbles up inside of him. His magic responses in kind and he can barely stop it from arcing across his skin. He can barely stand still. 

He darts out the moment the elevator doors open, grateful that there’s no one here to stop him. He finds the ICU and presses a hand against the sensor by the door. It opens for him and the eyes of everyone in the room darts to him. One nurse approaches him, wringing her hands before her. “Lord Lucien.” She swallows and tries to hide the tremble in her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to see Morgan.” Lucien doesn’t let her stop him, taking off to where room 3 resides. The door is smartly shut and the blind are drawn across the windows. No one makes a move to stop him. 

He opens the door and is greeted by the doctor. The doctor looks up from the charts on his clipboard, eyes widening. He steps back from the bed, grip tightening on the clipboard. “Lord Lucien, are you here for an update?”

Lucien looks away from the doctor, taking in Morgan’s state. Lucien’s magic is still encased around Morgan’s arm, thin extensions made by another person’s magic spreading out on either side. His magic is grey and muted, the color paling in comparison to what coils beneath his skin. 

Morgan’s skin has taken on a greyish sheen, sweat mattering his hair. An oxygen mask has been fitted to his face and an IV is inserted into the arm opposite of the one corrupted with decay. Even in sleep, Morgan’s face is twisted in pain.

“I’m here with the cure.” Lucien removes the activant from his pocket and the clean needle. 

The doctor eyes both of them with distrust, not putting forth the effort to hide it. “Has it been tested?”

“Do you think I would use something I didn’t test personally?” Lucien removes the protective sheath and draws out 2.17 milliliters of the activant. He moves to dispel the magic.

“Wait, you shouldn’t do that!” The doctor reaches out and grabs Lucien’s arm. Lucien flinches when the doctor digs his fingers into his wound. The doctor withdraws his hand as if the touch burned him, eyes wide. “You used it on yourself.”

“And I’m still here.” Lucien gives the doctor a mirthless grin, tight with displeasure. “Do you trust me now?”

The doctor frowns, indecision written clearly across his expression. “Be careful.”

Lucien nods even if it’s just quelling the doctor’s worries. He’s only careful enough to ensure that Morgan isn’t hurt.

Lucien grabs another pair of gloves from one of the boxes on the counter and dispels the magic. The bitter taste of decay burns against his tongue, more pronounced after taking the activatant. The doctor steps back, swallowing at the sight of the decay. Lucien doubts that he’s seen it without the protective cover Lucien’s provided. 

Lucien holds Morgan’s arm in one hand, the grey staining his skin. Lucien holds the needle over one of the bright veins lines his arm and inserts the needle beneath his skin. “I’m sorry.” Lucien whispers, the words barely heard over the magic roaring in his ears. He doesn't know what compelled him to speak. But, in the end, it doesn't matter.

He injects the activant a moment later.

Lucien removes the needle, a small bead of blood forming at the site of the inject. Morgan is still and both of them watch with bated breath.

Morgan’s eyes shoot open and he _screams_. 

Lucien’s at his side in an instant, concern palpable in his expression. “Morgan?” Lucien asks, his voice growing frantic. He didn’t react like _this_. “What’s wrong?”

Morgan digs one hand into his hair and grips the other around Lucien’s arm. His screams fade into broken sobs. But the decay staining his skin slowly recedes, quick enough for the change to be visible.

Lucien wraps his arms around Morgan, pressing him into his chest. He couldn’t help the smile that breaks across his face. It _worked_.

“Lucien?” Morgan’s voice is rough and cracking. He releases his grip from Lucien’s arm, choosing to press an arm around Lucien’s shoulders.

“I’m here.” Lucien says, voice thick with tears he refuses to let fall. “Everything’s alright now.” 

Morgan nods into his chest. “I trust you.”

Lucien tries to stop from showing on his face how much it meant to him to hear that. He’s unsuccessful.

After a few minutes, Lucien detaches himself. He needs to run some more tests to make sure that Morgan’s truly cured and to test the efficacy of this activant. It works now with short term exposure but he needs to test whether or not it’ll be effective for long term exposure. He’s certain that even Alden and Cassidy would be willing to donate blood for this. 

He helps Morgan lean back; Morgan is still weakened from the decay. Morgan gives Lucien a tired smile that Lucien tries to return. Lucien straightens his sleeve to hide the bandages and stands.

He must’ve stood too quickly; the world spins around him and he finds himself unsteady on his feet. He lurches over, desperately reaching for something to steady himself. Voices echo over him but he can’t hear them. He wants to tell them that he’ll be fine and this will pass—it’s not the first time he’s needed a moment to collect himself—but he can’t find the words to.

His legs crumple beneath him and his world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	30. wound reveal, ignoring an injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the ignoring Lucien’s been doing the past few days has finally caught up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last installment of this mini series! Please read part 1 and 2, chapter 28 and 29, for this to make more sense.
> 
> Here I attempt to writing from a pov of a doctor with my limited medical knowledge. Please excuse any inaccuracies. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: blood, hospital, referenced suicidal ideations

Doctor Holden prides himself with his adaptability, he has to possess this skill if he wants to continue working in the ICU of the best hospital in the capital. But even he’s having trouble adjusting to working with Morgan and Lucien. Most wounds any of the members of the Oligarchy are treated by themselves in their building. The supplies they have on hand is usually enough to handle any wound or illness they come across. 

But the distorted burn, he later learns it’s called decay, spread across Morgan’s arm was enough to unsteady him. Then the sight of Lucien’s magic containing it nearly knocked him off his feet. Whatever had happened between the two, who were barely on speaking terms, is something that Holden couldn’t figure out.

The staff in the ER weren’t anymore forthcoming. Lucien had dropped off Morgan, cryptically answered the least amount of questions necessary and left. The assumption was that Lucien was going to fix this but Morgan’s ER doctor was just as stumped at Holden is. 

The decay works like an accelerated infection, slowly creeping further into Morgan’s body. The magic Lucien encased it with was effective in lessening the spread but it wasn’t a cure. Morgan’s condition continued to worsen, the distinctive symptoms of lynatheo starting to present. Splotchy bruises bloom across Morgan’s skin, bright against his pallor. Holden feared that the conversation he’d be having was one about end of life treatment. 

As cruel as it sounds, Holden had hoped that Morgan’s passing would be quick. Even in sleep, Morgan’s face twists with pain no matter the strength of the painkillers they give. The pain of fighting against one’s magic isn’t something that can be quelled by normal means. If an appropriate time came, Holden considered using suppressants to ease Morgan’s struggle.

Seeing a patient suffer when there’s nothing for him to do is excruciating. It’s the worst aspect of his career. 

But Lucien comes back with a miracle, his skin humming with a manic and uncontrollable magic. For a moment, Holden thought Lucien was grasping at straws but he couldn’t deny what he saw.

Despite how much pain it put Morgan through, it reversed the decay. Not completely, not yet, but enough to stop the infection. Holden let his guard down, believing that the worst was to pass. 

But it never works like that with him. 

The moment Lucien stands from the bed, his legs buckle beneath him. Morgan catches him, unable to hide the wince as Lucien leans against Morgan’s arm. Holden’s at his side a moment later, pulling one of Lucien’s arms around his shoulders and holding him up by his waist. Holden brings him to the chair, laying him on top of it. Lucien’s lighter than he should be. He can feel the weight of Morgan’s concern on his back.

Holden kneels beside Lucien, pressing two fingers to his wrist. He can’t tear his gaze from the dirty bandages peeking out from beneath the sleeve of Lucien’s lab coat. Lucien’s heartbeat is fast, almost concerningly so. How long has Lucien been running around like this?

Holden’s surprised he was able to walk through the front doors of the hospital himself. 

Holden pushes Lucien’s sleeve further back. Brown spots of dried blood and the uneven edge of a deep red blood stain greet him. A hand on his wrist stops him before he can assess it further. Holden looks up to see Lucien staring at him, his eyes narrowed to thin slits.

“Lord Lucien.” Holden says, not releasing his hand despite Lucien’s implications. “I need to ensure you’re alright.”

Lucien tightens his grip but Holden can’t ignore how it’s weaker than it should. Fractured magic dances across it. “I’m fine. I just stood too quickly.”

“Just let me look you over. It’ll settle my concern.” Holden removes Lucien’s hand from his wrist and rolls Lucien’s sleeve further up. 

Lucien frowns but doesn’t replace his hand. “I’m fine. It’s nothing I can’t treat myself.”

Holden hovers a hand over the bandages, taking in the dried spots scattered around the bright red gash in the center. Lucien obviously cut himself recently but Holden can’t fathom why. If the rest of the wounds are from blood drawing, Lucien should have more than enough for the experimenting he’s been doing.

Holden lightly presses against the wound, the blood stickly beneath his fingers. “How did you get this?”

Lucien can’t hide the wince that flicker across his face. “I needed to—”

Lucien tears his hand from Holden’s grasp, cutting himself off with a sputtering wheeze. It evolves into a full blown coughing fit. Holden supports Lucien’s shoulders, keeping him from doubling over. It may give the illusion of quelling the cough, but sitting hunched over can worsen it. 

It eventually subsides and Lucien’s breathing is regulated to wheezing gasps. If this continues, Holden might need to clear out a bed for Lucien. When Lucien brings his hand away from his mouth, it’s stained with gleaming blood. Lucien frowns at it with muted confusion. “I can’t lose anymore of that.”

If that wasn’t concerning, Holden didn’t know what was. “C’mon, let’s go to another room. We can figure out how to fix this.” Holden can’t continue this in front of Morgan. It’ll do nothing to assist in his recovery, no matter how much Morgan believes he should be here helping. 

Lucien looks up at him and for a moment Holden thought Lucien was going to protest. But he just nods and stands from the chair. Holden has to steady him, practically carrying him. Holden glances to Morgan and gives him a small nod. He’s unsure if Morgan understood what he’s trying to convey but he doesn’t protest. 

The moment Holden steps into the hall, he flags down the first two nurses he sees. “Taylor, get another room set up. Alison, check up on Morgan. Lucien reversed the decay but he’s not out of the woods yet.”

Both of them nod, rushing off in opposite directions. Holden takes off in the same direction as Taylor, following him to the new room. Lucien is partially limp in his arms, struggling to put one step in front of the other.

The moment they pass through the threshold of the room, Lucien pushes away from Holden. He stumbles and collides into the cabinets, the sound of flesh against the wood echoing through the room. Holden tries to catch him as he drops to the floor, barely able to stop him from slamming his head into the rim of a waste bin. 

Lucien heaves into it, coughing up thick splotches of blood. Holden holds him up, ensuring that he doesn’t tip over when he’s done. Holden looks up to Taylor, who stands a few feet away with an expression of thinly veiled fear. “Set up the EAM and ATS. We need to determine if this is lynatheo or lisatheo.”

It’s most likely lisatheo, given that Lucien injected himself with an apparently highly volatile activant, but the blood loss lends itself to lynatheo. It’s certainly possible that Lucien was suffering from lynatheo prior to the activant and induced a case of lisatheo. 

Treating that may prove to be difficult. The abrupt switch between deficiency and overabundance could overwhelm Lucien’s autem. Their functioning could be anywhere between both extremes. Ideally it would have settled at a normal level, but it’s clear that isn’t what’s happening. 

If the preliminary observations Holden makes are correct, it appears that Lucien’s body still believes he’s suffering from lynatheo. Dark bruises dots Lucien’s exposed skin, the telltale marker of lynatheo. But Holden can be certain that those are current or from Lucien’s previous case of lynatheo. 

Lucien leans back from the waste bin, pressing against Holden’s side. His breath rattles in his chest and blood stains his teeth. Holden carries Lucien to the bed, gently propping him up against the raised back. Taylor returns a few minutes later, wheeling in a cart with two machines. 

While Taylor starts setting up the machines, Holden helps Lucien remove his coat. “We need to remove this for now.” Holden says, carefully pulling the lab coat off Lucien’s shoulders. He complies with little protest. “You can keep your shirt but you’ll have to remove that too eventually.”

Lucien nods a few seconds later, disconnected from Holden’s own words. He watches Taylor set up the machines around him and attach electrodes to different surfaces of his skin. Taylor hikes up Lucien's shirt to attach the ATS electors against his ribs and Holden can see the stark purple bruises that bloom across his back. 

Taylor attaches the electrodes on Lucien’s wrist, hand hovering over the bandages. Holden gently moves him out of the way to inspect the bandages. He looks up to Taylor briefly. “Tell me the reading when they come out.”

Taylor nods and busies himself with the machinery. Holden unwinds the bandages, taking care not to tear them from the skin where it sticks. Lucien winces when Holden nears the cut but otherwise doesn’t comment. 

Holden drops the bandages on the nearby counter, grabbing a square of gauze from the cabinet. The cut on Lucien’s arm is already seeping blood, slow but steady enough to be concerning. The edges are smooth, obviously made with a sharp knife. It’s most likely deeper than what Lucien intended. 

Beside the cut are small circular wounds, the faint imprints of bruises bordering them. Presumably they’re from when Lucien withdrew his blood, but Holden’s not certain. “How did you get these?” Holden asks, pressing the gauze to the cut. He’ll need to stitch it. It’s unlikely it’ll stop bleeding on it’s own. 

Lucien drags his gaze from the machinery to Holden, peering down at his arm. “Mostly from drawing blood. One of them is from the activant.”

Holden nods to show that he’s listening, pressing harder on the gauze. Lucien flinches but says nothing. Holden glances to the door, gesturing to one of the nurses hovering by. “I need the suture kit with the anesthesia.”

The nurse darts off. Holden returns to Lucien’s wound and replaces the gauze. It’s already soaked. “Don’t put epinephrine in.” Lucien says, an edge present in his voice despite its weakness. 

“I won’t if you don’t want to.” Holden says. He doesn’t look away when the nurse returns with the kit. She places it on the counter and leaves. Holden steps away and opens the kit. He grabs the syringe, lidocaine and sodium bicarbonate. “You never did tell me how you got the cut on your arm.”

Holden can hear Lucien shift against the bed, the fabric of his clothes rustling against the sheets. “I needed a sample of my blood to test the activant on. So I wouldn’t kill myself if it was too strong.”

Holden extracts a small amount of the sodium bicarbonate and then a larger amount of lidocaine. He returns to Lucien’s side and removes the gauze. “Any reason you couldn’t draw it the normal way?”

Lucien frowns, watching Holden poise the syringe above the cut. Holden was to advise him not to watch, but he doubts that Lucien would be phazed considering he’s been withdrawing his own blood frequently.

Or that he would listen.

“I didn’t have the time.” Lucien says as if that’s the most obvious explanation.

Holden presses the syringe into Lucien’s skin and pushes down on the stopper. He pulls it out and replaces the gauze. “I’m sure you could’ve thought of something.”

Lucien shakes his head but doesn’t respond. He grits his teeth together, the muscles in his throat taunt. Holden grabs the needle, forceps and thread. He threads the needle, holds it tight in the mouth of the forceps and removes the gauze. He sets to work, rhythmically inserting the needle into Lucien’s flesh. Lucien watches with detached curiosity. 

About halfway through the wound, Taylor breaks the silence that has fallen between them. “EAS reading of 48.50 over 20.21 and ATS reading of 873 mels.”

The aterial EAS and ATS values are abnormally high but the venular EAS value is relatively low. As predicted, Lucien’s displaying signs of both lynatheo and lisatheo. But they need to stabilize the ATS value before they attempt to treat the underlying lynatheo. 

The activant triggered Lucien’s autem to make more magic after they were already on high alert. The lack of raw magic from overuse was overridden by the activant. Holden will need to be careful when treating this.

“Retrieve both treatments but prepare the one for lisatheo first.” Holden says, continuing the stitching. Lucien has grown alarmingly silent. Holden assumed that he would have something to say about his numbers. It isn’t a well kept secret that Lucien’s a scientist himself. 

Holden glances up and finds Lucien sitting back with his eyes screwed shut. Holden completes the stitching, trying it up and cutting the thread, before turning back to Lucien. Holden speaks as he wraps the wound. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Lucien grits out. He sighs and attempts to relax his features. “Just tired.”

“You can rest.” Holden steps away from Lucien, cleaning up his equipment and putting them off to the side to be disposed of later. “Now that we have a diagnosis, we can treat it.”

Lucien nods slowly, as if considering that option takes too much effort. But he curls in on himself and drifts off to sleep.

A few moments later, Taylor returns with the treatments. Now Holden can get to work.

——

The past day was the longest and more painful one of Morgan’s entire life. He’s not allowed to leave the room until he’s discharged. It was due to the valid concern about decay contamination but it doesn't change how desperately Morgan wants to see Lucien. He’s barely heard a word about him after he collapsed in Morgan’s room.

Holden is tight lipped and Alison will ignore him when the topic is brought up. Other than a guarded mention that he’s still living to quell any ideas of escape, Morgan’s heard nothing about Lucien. It’s starting to concern Morgan.

But the moment he’s discharged, his arm still wrapped tight with bandages, he storms back into the ICU. Lenna disapproves of his actions, feeling that he needs to continue resting and recovering. 

He disagrees with her. He can rest well enough from Lucien’s room. 

The nurses give him a wide berth as he walks through the ICU. Holden’s nowhere to be found, either not on shift or busy with another patient. 

The door to Lucien’s room is shut and the blinds are drawn over the windows. They must have orders to give Lucien privacy due to his title. Morgan’s certain he was given the same treatment. 

He pushes the door open, greeted to an inky darkness punctuated only by the light of monitors. He flicks on the lights and shuts the door behind him. 

Lucien lays in a hospital bed, dressed in the pale blue hospital gown that serves only to wash out his skin further. White bandages wind around one arm and an IV is tucked into the back of his hand on the other. Blood and a clear medication feed into the tubing. Dark shadows stain the skin beneath his eyes and deep purple bruises creep out from under the collar of Lucien’s gown. 

Morgan drags a chair up to Lucien’s bed and holds one of his hands in a gentle grasp. He doesn’t know how much time passes like this, but Lucien eventually stirs. He opens his eyes to slits, wincing against the light. He turns his head, confusion written clearly on his expression. “Morgan? What are you doing here?” There’s the remnants of an accent Morgan can’t place in his voice.

“Waiting for you to wake up. They wouldn’t let me see you until I was discharged.” Morgan tightens his grip on Lucien’s hand as if he’d pull away if Morgan didn’t. Morgan doesn’t know if he could handle that.

Lucien looks to his hand but doesn’t make any move to remove it. Instead, he returns the grasp. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not the one in a hospital bed, am I?” Morgan tries to smile, but it falls flat. “But I am feeling better.”

“That’s good.” Lucien leans back, his whole posture relaxing. “I was worried it wasn’t effective.”

Morgan licks his lips, unable to find the way to address the most prominent question on his mind. “Lucien.” Morgan starts, finding the words to continue that don’t burn in his mouth. “What did you do?”

The question encompasses more than what Lucien did to treat Morgan.

Lucien looks away, his grip loosening. “I created a refined form of an activant. It pushed your magic to the point of being able to over take the decay.”

“And how does this involve you passing out from blood loss with a wound on your arm?” Concern dulls the sharp, pointed edge in Morgan’s voice, an edge that he wishes he could remove.

Lucien swallows and his hand trembles. Morgan grips it tighter. “I needed someone to test it on before I used it with you. Using my blood and body happened to be the most convenient.” 

“That it’s illogical and we both know that. What were you doing, trying to kill yourself like that?” Morgan asks the question with the appropriate amount of concern but layered with a tone that besets the extremes of his statement. But at Lucien’s silence, Morgan’s ease melts into shock. “You were trying to die.”

“I wasn’t trying per se.” Lucien tries to tear his hand out of Morgan’s grasp but Morgan won’t let him. He needs to feel the cold touch of Lucien’s hand beneath his skin. “But if that was the outcome, I wouldn’t have argued it.”

“You can’t throw your life away!” Morgan forces his voice to lower, unsure exactly how thin these walls are. “Not like that! Not for _me_!”

“Everyone has the life that they're supposed to live and I can’t help but feel like I’m living on borrowed time.” Lucien has this haunted look in his eyes, dulling the normally vibrant green of his iris. “I wasn’t supposed to discover decay unscathed.”

“Don’t say that. It doesn’t matter how it should’ve been, it only matters how it is now. We’re both here, _alive_.” Fractured shards of desperation leak into Morgan’s voice, tearing into soft flesh of his throat. “And I’m not the only one grateful for that. You have your son.”

“How do you know about that?” Lucien’s voice is a brush above a whisper, pulled taunt by emotions that Morgan can’t make out. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“I couldn’t have spent my whole life with you and not recognize your magic signature.” Morgan tries to smile again, this time feeling more real. “Don’t worry, no one else knows.”

“Thank you.” Lucien sighs, his hand limp in Morgan’s grasp.

“Just promise me that you’ll at least try to live for him?” Morgan picks up Lucien’s hand and holds it against his chest. He knows what this looks like, what this could be implying to Lucien. He can’t ignore the part of him that still wants that. “If you won’t for me.”

Lucien frowns but doesn't look away. He sighs, as if the thought weighs on him. “Alright, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms:   
> _Lynatheo_ refers to magic deficiency while _lisatheo_ refers to magic overabundance.
> 
> _Autem_ is the organ that refines magic into a form usable by the body.
> 
> EAS stands for _Eris Atheo Serine_ or Blood Magic Level. This, if used without a blood sample, provides two numbers. One related to magic in the arteries and one for the veins.
> 
> ATS stands for _Autem Trepron Serine_ or Autem Production Level. This measures how much magic a person's autem creates, measures in mellious or shortened to mels. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).


	31. experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The results of Paris's many trials are coming to fruition, with the results more than even he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my last entry for whumptober! Thank you for sticking around with me until the end. This has been an enjoyable experience.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this last chapter.
> 
> Please mind the trigger warnings as this delves into some serious matters. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: child abuse, psychological abuse, child experimentation, character death mention, self-harm mention

Paris watches as Seth and K spar, the two throwing out crude imitations of magic and spells. He’s disappointed with Seth’s lack of growth and the apparent limitations of Paris’s own genetics compared to his brother’s. It’s a shame that Paris had to kill Evan. 

It’s obvious now that Paris should’ve used Evan’s DNA for more stable experiments, no matter how successful K is, he is the only one. Of Paris’s many failures, some of which were unable to even reach a stage beyond a mass of cells, only one was even close to K’s ability. But even J was unstable and succumbed to the overwhelming magic he possessed. 

Seth, Everly, and Theodore were infinitely more stable than even K but the lack of prowess is evident. It’s still too soon to tell completely with Theodore—and one could argue that prior to their spell books, everything about their abilities is uncertain—but Seth and Everly pale in comparison to the natural magic K possesses. 

Paris couldn’t only hope to imagine the power that K will gain when he receives his spell book. He’s already of age, the only thing holding Paris back is his own indecisiveness.

One cannot control what type of spell book a child receives but they can manipulate it to favor a specific type. By honing one's magic prior to receiving a spell book, they can incline themselves to a specific class of magic. It’s no guarantee, even after years of study Paris still isn’t certain how one is chosen by their spell book, but there is some support for this. Especially since classes of magic run in families.

That’s where the intrigue with both K and Paris’s own children and nephew come in. Seth, Everly, and Theodore’s magic is blended between his family and Lukas’s family; the perfect mix between destruction and creation magic. Ideally, any one of them would receive a spell book to reflect this and hopefully negate the apparent weakness they have. 

K, on the other hand, possesses a mix between the destruction magic that Paris wields and the unique magic of the Calethyian people. Paris would’ve preferred the Astorian or Zoskian magic, they possess the level of raw magic one can only hope to obtain through the use of spell books in Theora, but he has to make due with what he has. The wings that K has are intriguing and Paris doesn’t regret the opportunity he has to study them. 

This unique mix of magic makes it difficult to predict what type of spell book K will receive. And there is the risk of K being unable to receive a spell book, given his non-Theorian blood. But Paris doubts that will come to fruition. Magic, at its core, is the same no matter how it manifests. The spell book picks up on that innate nature rather than the presentation. That is one of the few things Paris is certain about the spell book summoning process. 

K pins Seth against the floor, both their chest heaving from the effort. Paris snaps the notebook shut, tucking the pen into his pocket. Nathan hovers a few feet beside Paris, watching the three of them with muted interest. Even after all these years of protection and foresight, Nathan hasn’t revealed why he agreed to their arrangement in the first place.

Other than the obvious desire for continued existence.

“We’re done for today.” Paris says, stepping onto the mat. K releases Seth and straightens up at Paris’s presence. Seth drags himself off the ground a moment later. “Seth, you may leave.”

Seth scrambles off, holding one of his arms against his chest. He’ll have to get a nurse to look at him later. He can’t have any lasting injuries.

“Father,” K says, respect heavy in his words. “What is it?”

“It’s time for you to receive your spell book.” Paris gestures for K to follow him, leaving down a hall opposite of the one Seth left to. There is a library in Paris’s castle, one linked for the use of summoning a spell book. No matter where you are located in Theora, if the library is linked correctly, you can summon any unbound spell book in the kingdom. It uses similar magic to what they used to activate and deactivate their own spell books. 

“Really?” K follows Paris, barely a step behind. Nathan hovers beside K, an odd fondness to his expression. Paris will have to inquire about this later. “You’re letting me get one?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. I wouldn’t say anything if I wasn’t going to give you one.” A condescending edge rests in Paris’s voice, although he doubts that K picks up on it. Nathan does and his gaze rests heavy on Paris’s back. 

K frowns but doesn’t speak against Paris’s words. “Yes Father.”

Paris stops before a large set of ornate doors, elaborate patterns gilded with a brilliant gold and pressed into the surface. Paris withdraws a key from his pocket, the design no less elaborate than the door. He slides it into the lock and opens it with a seamless click. He pushes the door open but does not enter. “I cannot join you into the library, so you need to do this yourself. In the center of the room is a shallow bowl. Cut your wrist, fill the bowl and wrap like I instructed. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” But K doesn’t move, peering into the library. The lights are off and the faint sunlight streams in through the large windows. “But what should I do if nothing happens?”

“Something will happen.” Paris says, his voice darkening and leaving no room for argument. “Now go.”

K steps into the library and Paris shuts the door behind him. It’s customary to let the child choose their spell book alone, the metaphorical first step into a child’s independence so to speak. Paris doesn’t quite believe in the customary practices and if he could get away with it, he would watch the ceremony himself. But it goes against what his people hold dear and he couldn’t risk any of the children spreading rumors that he didn’t follow their practices.

And that the success of the ceremony diminishes greatly if another magic presence is the library while the summoning occurs. Paris often finds that behind cultural customs is the factual reasoning that started the customs in the first place. 

Paris leans against the far wall, gaze set firmly on the doors. He has half the mind to send Nathan in to watch, but he doesn’t know how his signature will be perceived. A ghost’s signature manifests differently but he isn’t confident that this difference is significant. It would be fruitless to send Nathan in only to ruin K’s ceremony. 

He idly attempts to detect traces of magic from beyond the doors to determine progress of the ceremony. The material the walls were constructed in many years ago out of substance that suppresses magic. Presumably it was to prevent any magic from leaking out during the ceremony; this magic is often highly volatile and dangerous. But it almost appears to be designed to prevent the very thing Paris is attempting to do. 

He waits for the door to open, deftly twirling his pen in one hand and holding his notebook in the other. No matter what happens, he’s confident it’ll be interesting. K’s magic is just unstable enough for it to hold great lengths of power. Who knows what type of spell book that will call.

It takes only ten minutes longer for K to emerge. The magic unfurling from him is bright and tastes like the breeze blowing over the night sea. K’s magic crackle against his shin, jumping off him in broken arcs. A spell book hovers beside him, the cover printed with the words: Moon’s Rising. Paris cannot wait to read the spells left by its previous users. 

“Father!” K shouts, taking another step forward but stopping just out of arm’s length to Paris. “I did it! I summoned my book!”

Paris grins, letting K’s magic run over his. It’s a pale gold, the shade not dissimilar to his own. “Yes, and a powerful one at that.” Paris wants to reach out and run a hand along the pages, but he restraints himself. It’ll only lash out at him if it touches it in this state. “Try deactivating it. We can’t look over it like this.”

K nods and turns his attention to the spell book. He holds out a hand and narrows his eyes. His magic dims and recedes into his body. The spell book lowers, the glow fading to reveal the off-white cover. Paris couldn’t be certain, but it appears K received a book about light manipulation. It’s interesting that K received a subsection of creation without being related to anyone possessing that magic. Maybe the Calethyian’s naturally align to that breed of magic.

The moment the spell book brushes against K’s skin, magic surges out in a burst of electricity. The lights shutter but don’t turn off. If it weren’t for Nathan’s carefully constructed shield of magic pressed against Paris’s skin, he’d be shoved into the wall.

The magic dissipates, leaving K kneeling on the floor. Tears run down his face, thick and splotchy. “I’m sorry!” K wails, his voice echoing the trembles in his body. “I didn’t mean to do that!”

Paris approaches K, watching for anymore bursts of magic. Nothing happens. “Try summoning your spell book.”

“I _can’t_.” K clenches his hands into tight fists, eyes pressed shut. “There’s nothing there!”

That doesn’t add up. K still has his spell book, Paris can sense it. Your magic increases substantially after summoning your spell book. “Then just start by activating your magic.”

K swallows but opens his eyes. They glow slightly as magic coats his hands. It has the distinctive features of the spell book without it even being present. “I’m summoning my spell book.” K’s voice is quiet, drawing thin with worry.

Everything clicks into place. Paris didn’t consider it possible, didn’t know to consider possible. K absorbed his spell book. Due to his increased magic level in his body, he perfectly matched his signature with the spell book’s and absorbed it. This could solve so many of Paris’s problems if he could perfect it.

“Don’t worry K, you did nothing wrong.” Paris kneels beside K, pressing a hand over K’s. His magic dances across Paris’s skin like nothing he’s sensed before. Is this what it’s like to have magic that doesn’t need the support of a spell book? “In fact, this is even better.”

——

It’s two years later that Paris meets Lucien Levine. It was through mere coincidence, Lucien happened to be in Maetus when Paris was speaking, K at his side. Given that Lucien was Calethyian, he could sense K’s wings despite being deactivated. Afterwards, Lucien gave Paris a barbed inquiry veiled under the guise of pleasant conversation. Paris thought that they hit off wonderfully, although he can’t say that Lucien felt the same.

No matter, Paris has used people who hated him before, using someone who rested only at ambivalence was child’s play. 

It helped that both of them had an understanding of completing not necessarily legal research.

Paris didn’t know the entirety of what Lucien was researching in the same way that Lucien didn’t know what Paris was researching. Paris gleaned from vague mentions and the Calethyian broadcast that piqued his interest a few years back that Lucien was working with magic decay. It was an interesting prospect that didn’t apply to Paris’s current research. But it would explain what happened to all the samples of his that didn’t survive to life. 

If Paris continues that research, he’ll have to take note of it. And if Lucien’s still alive at that point, then he’ll have to pass on his research to him. 

Lucien knows that Paris’s research relates to the spell books, which fascinates him. This lack of knowledge about spell books and Paris’s lack of knowledge of wings—you can’t best someone who’s dissected them—lent itself to a working relationship between the two of them.

Right now, Lucien sits in his office with a cup of tea. His large wings are folded up behind him, as if he’s reminding which of them holds the power despite the location. Much to Paris’s chagrin, Lucien’s magic is more powerful than Paris’s despite the spell book he owns. 

Distantly, Paris regrets not being able to have Lucien’s DNA to model K and his predecessors after. But he was constrained by his age and allies. Evan couldn’t have known that there were people with wings even larger than the one he gathered. But if K had Lucien’s wings and a spell book, he’d be unstoppable.

Assuming that the instability of Lucien’s magic could handle that. It was something that Paris would never get to know. He’s not giving Lucien a spell book. 

“Lucien,” Paris doesn’t refer to him as Lord, despite him holding a position in the Calethyian Oligarchy. Just like how Lucien won’t refer to him as Lord either. “What brings you here?”

“I’m on some official business.” Lucien places the cup down on the table beside him, the porcelain clattering against the saucer. “Once Braith learned that I was on friendly terms with one of the Lords of Theora, he demanded that I meet King Lukas.”

“If I may ask,” Paris layers his voice with innocence that barely hides the edge. He’s certain that Lucien picks up on it regardless. “Why do you continue serving Braith if he only possesses as much power as you’ve said?”

Lucien told Paris that Braith holds the same amount of magic as Paris. Paris had suppressed his annoyance at being told that he held lesser magic than Lucien. It was one thing to sense it, it was another to hear it in conversation.

“We’ve come to an agreement. When he does have requests for me, I listen. Otherwise I’m free to do as I please.” Lucien leans back in the chair, his wings rustling with the movement. A few night black feathers flutter to the floor. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to Challenge him?” Paris tests out the term, unfamiliar of the connotations associated with the use in Calethyian context. 

Lucien frowns, narrowing his eyes. Paris quickly realizes he’s misspoken. “That wouldn’t serve to fix anything. I’ll just be saddled with additional responsibilities.”

“Then don’t Challenge him for his position, but for freedom from yours.” Paris says, letting a haughty edge resting in his voice as if he couldn’t believe that Lucien didn’t think of this first. 

Lucien smiles and it’s bitterly condescending. “Challenges are a public affair, especially between Lords. Either way I’ll be getting publicity that I don’t want. It’s hard enough as is without displaying this to the entire kingdom.”

“But being a messenger boy is beneath you, don’t you agree?” Paris ignores the jab that Lucien made at his ignorance. It’s his own fault for bringing up the topic in the first place. 

“I’ve been told that before.” Lucien’s smile grows tight, as if his thoughts have become unpleasant. Paris knows better than to inquire about them. “Much hasn’t changed since then.”

“What’s stopping you from changing that?” Paris layers his voice with faux confusion. “Complete your meeting with Lukas and refuse to continue any more requests like that.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to visit again if I go through with it.” The reluctance in Lucien’s voice betrays that he knows his statement isn’t as true as he makes it out to be. 

“As if that’ll stop you.” Paris grins, too sharp on the edges to be friendly.

Lucien hums and Paris knows that he’s finally convinced him. It serves Paris well to be a supporting figure in Lucien’s life. Especially since it doesn’t seem like he has any in Calethyia. Maybe he could convince Lucien to move to Theora.

Now that’s a thought. As if Lucien would leave behind his family. 

“I’ll have to think about it.” Lucien stands, spreading his wings out to their full length. “As much as I enjoy our conversing, I’d best be off. I can’t keep King Lukas waiting.”

“His patience is limited, even for a foreign emissary.” Paris knows Lukas well. They’ve been at each other’s wits ends since the moment they first met. He could say that they’re not unlike Lucien and Morgan. “Goodbye Lucien.”

Lucien bows slightly with an incline of his head. “Goodbye Paris.”

Lucien jumps into the air, leaving through the large windows behind Paris’s desk, open for this very purpose. Paris brings his cup of tea to his lips, the drink having long since gone cold. Lucien’s useful, extremely useful. It would be a waste for Paris to lose him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paris is one of my favorite characters to write for and writing this was a treat. Character-wise, he is extremely interesting. But here's the obligatory mention that I don't not condone nor support his behaviour.
> 
> I also created a map, which can be found [here](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/post/633521287063568384/map-of-vonia), that illustrates where some of the countries mentioned are found.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Cover is found [here](https://fade-from-the-light.tumblr.com/post/630789481951313920/theres-no-residue-of-a-torturer-inside-of-your).


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